


Of Capes and Swords

by Kifujin Kitade (KifujinKitade)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KifujinKitade/pseuds/Kifujin%20Kitade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU XS. What if Xanxus and Squalo had met in Firenze during a total war to obtain the honorific title of duke? At first they're supposed to be enemies fighting for different sides, but the path their heart took say the contrary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Capes and Swords

Of Capes And Swords.  
Firenze, the graceful, idyllic town in the middle of Toscana. How beautiful is she with her ancient monuments, her matchless gardens, palaces, churches, cathedrals. The wonderful view you're getting from the Piazzale Michelangelo is giving you a slight idea of how magnificent is that city: the beauty herself, the limpid water of the Arno as her mane. How stunning, how amazing may seem that piece of art sculpted in a mild plain under a peaceful sky, the pearl of the Renaissance, a jewel thrown in the center of Italia.  
But today, what I want to show you is a more precise spot a bit more buried into those mazes of old streets – though you can clearly see it from afar, that huge, imposing building: the Palazzo Vecchio. The construction sure is impressive with his tall and austere tower, visible miles away, overhanging the all place (yet it can't eclipse the hugeness of the Brunelleschi's dome, the adequately called Duomo).  
Closely, the former castle looks more frightening with its crenellated ramparts, the grey, sad walls that have as only proves of an inside form of life numerous windows, only glowing dimly when night has fallen on Firenze. Otherwise the Palazzo really seems to be some sort of prison.  
This is a digression.  
Built on the main place of the town, the Piazza della Signoria, the Palazzo Vecchio had been since long witness of many public meetings, popular fests, sumptuous parties, revolutions, and even tortures. Yes, the old castle sure had seen some. But that day, it wasn't. On the contrary, the place was quiet calm and serene. The sun had just passed the zenith and summer was tainting skies with heavy bleu, almost no cloud cooling down the hellish heat on the passer-by's forehead.  
People were walking with laziness on the cobblestone streets, agonizingly looking for some shady place to sit in. Some, more brave, were just sitting at the feet of monumental statues, eyeing indolently at David, Hercule, Cacus or Marzocco, or – the fortunate ones! – Neptune with his eternal floods of water. A real, true summer afternoon. And nothing would have disturbed that peaceful day of tranquility, if it wasn't for that unexpected crash of clogs on the stone, followed by horses' neighing and heavy breaths.  
A cavalcade made their entrance at the square, in front of the bewildered stares of the strollers. There were maybe six or seven on the head of the small troop, followed by a dozen of other riders. In spite of the heat, they were all wearing dark capes and masks, but only at their behavior and impetuous entrance, one could guess they still were young. One particularly seemed more reckless than the others: the man (he was indeed a man) was tall, his skin – or the scarce part of his skin that could been seen, not hidden behind layers of clothes and disguise, part which only consisted in his neck and throat – his skin was tanned, his hair black and spiky. Red feathers were fluttering on his neck. Without getting down from his horse, he headed toward the Palazzo's entry.  
Forewarned by their strange appearance, three guards blocked the passage.  
'Slow down, you there!' Yelled one of them. 'How dare you, with such disrespect, treading on…' But he couldn't say more as the raven haired man aimed a gun at him. Right away the guards took a defensive position, pulling their own rifles. Another squad was already running to help the first guards. To start with, they were twenty against six, and right after sixty against twenty.  
'By the name of the Duke, name yourself, churls!' The squad's officer shouted toward the said churls' leader.  
The raven said nothing; instead his companions all pulled their weapons out, ready for an imminent clash. The officer didn't want to lose his time with such fools. 'Fire!' He ordered. A salvo exploded.  
At the other side, let's not say of the city, yet far enough to be completely oblivious of what was happening at the Piazza, another man, that one with silvery hair – and if that wasn't odd enough for a young man (the man was young, his handsome features were screaming with youth), the mane was pooling down to his waist – so that man was fuming.  
Saying that the silver head was good-looking was a euphemism. Even if his face was expressing a high degree of anger, all that anger couldn't hide the marvelous features of his, nor deteriorate the grey, ferric gaze of his eyes.  
Another man was with him, that one was blonde and had chocolate eyes. His gorgeousness could easily be compared with his friend's.  
'They had been looking for this! Who told them to fuck with me?' The silverette shouted at his companion, a deep scowl on his face.  
'Ah! Ah! But they are rookies, Squalo. You can't expect rookies to instantly know what to do in those kinds of situation!' The blonde beamed.  
It didn't seem to convince the first man, the one called Squalo. 'Voi! Stop laughing stupidly, Cavallone! Rookies or not, those little shitheads were annoying me. They deserved what they got.'  
Squalo went down the stone-made steps of a church, the blonde on his heels.  
In order to let the reader understand why the silver beauty was that mad, they have to know first that the Squalo man was one of Florence's feared marescialli. There was one for each district. Their job wasn't really complicated, though not easy; they were responsible for their area's security, all under the direct aegis of the Duke. In short, marescialli were like some kind of city policemen. The only difference was that they weren't as bound by the laws as our peacekeepers; with the result that some would more associated them to Mafia than police. But for them, it was the same things.  
So Squalo was a maresciallo, the one in charge of the Piazza della Signoria and its surroundings (in a radius of about two kilometers). And the reason to the maresciallo's irritation was, like almost every day God gave him, his subordinates' incompetence.  
The Cavallone man was trying to calm him down. 'Okay. If you say so. But you have to admit you're quite exigent. You know you can't get…'  
He paused. A guard he recognized as being one of the Old Palace's was running toward them as if Hell's hounds had been released behind him. That sight hadn't passed unnoticed to the silverette, who was frowning even deeper, ready for some bad news.  
'Signore Squalo…' The man breathed heavily when he reached them. 'The plazza… Is under attack!'  
He almost fainted. The silver haired man couldn't care less about the man. At once he ran and nearly tore his horse's bridle from a footman then, getting on as swiftly as someone having all his debt-holders at his butt, he rode hell for leather to the commotion.  
In front of the plazza, the confrontation turned to be more balanced than what was initially expected. The loungers had since long understood the danger of staying between two fires, the place was void of people apart from the town's soldiers who were keeping on rushing into the clash. The horsemen had left their horses and were fighting in the scramble. Bravely giving gunshot for gunshot, gash for gash, the masked men were quite easily breaking through the squad.  
Their leader mostly didn't have any mercy for the poor souls that were falling under his bullets. The raven, without sweating a drop, was the one moving the most freely in the shambles. One soldier after another, they were all succumbing to his deadly attacks. However he didn't give the impression to be in the slightest saddened by the trail of dead bodies he was leaving in his stride.  
On the other hand his companions weren't doing half-bad. In the leading group, a young man – almost a child and yet as vivid as his comrades – with red hair burning under the summer sun, was making his way in the confuse crowd using his own pistol, but the contrary to his leader, the sight of blood pouring from the corpses was slightly disturbing him. Another blonde youth (maybe a soldier himself, as he was moving almost the same way as their foes) was gunning his way in. The oddness about him was the fact he was using a huge sporting-gun, evidently not made for a frontal attack, but that wasn't troubling his move in the least.  
The next one was black haired. He had a rather different fighting style than the others, as he was fighting bare fists, with fast and precise movements – he was for sure the swiftest among them – just like in martial arts (how strange to see that sort of happening in the middle of Italia!). The two last ones were like twins: everything in their moves, their weapons (tridents shaped with the same fashion, apart from the fact that the second one was much more like a mere spear), their looks and even their haircut was exactly the same, but what was differentiating them was only their height. The first one was tall, but his counterpart was much smaller and leaner than him; the young man was actually a young girl.  
And that eccentric group, as odd as they might look like and as different as the members were, that strange group was easily beating their enemies back; and so the latter had to add new soldiers to their decimated ranks in order to fill the holes done in their formations. At that stage of the skirmish, no one even gave a little thought about the cadaver under their feet and their ghosts upon their heads. Neither faction was planning on surrendering, or maybe only on their wounded, dying, dead bodies. And dead bodies there were, spreading all over the once peaceful Piazza, the thick blood staining the tarmac.  
Too taken by the battle, no one noticed the silver haired man arriving on his auburn Holstein. Without a further ado he unsheathed his own weapons – a beautifully shaped spada – and threw himself neck and crop in the scuffle.  
Nevertheless, once the silver haired man took part in it, the battle suddenly went to a turning point. The soldiers, as if they were finally reassured by the long-awaited arrival of their captain, regained some of their courage. With more fierceness, they started progressing on the battlefield. Only one minute after the silverette's coming the two splinter groups somehow found an appearance of equilibrium.  
Squalo didn't have the same uncertain hesitation as his underlings. Shipshape and pitiless, just like the shark hunting in his privileged waters. The silver haired swordsman was making headway in the absolute hubbub, serene and majestic, stabbing deadly one of the formerly unscathed riders, pulling a cape to him and piercing the hidden flesh, knocking off an unguarded one and then kicking at one's ass, non regarding whether they were enemy or ally (in the first case it was for them to make him more place to move, in the second to make them move further).  
'Vooi! Keep moving forward, scum!' Squalo was shouting to his subordinates. 'I swear if you're not, I'm the one who's going to kill you! Stop fucking shaking like fucking girls! Voi, trash! Can't correctly use a fucking sword? Want me to cut your damn legs to show you how?'  
At the end of the day, maybe it wasn't the joy of seeing his general fighting at their side that was making the soldiers fight better. It was only the fear said general was inspiring in them, and the dread, not of being killed by the enemy, but indeed of having to show an utter defeat to the man – the sanction would be by far more hurtful than dying on the front line.  
Without knowing, the dreadful shark was heading slowly to where the raven was fighting. The swordsman only noticed his presence when said man unintentionally bumped at his back. Both jumped then quickly turned back to glare at the intruder.  
The silverette couldn't give an exact reason, but the raven was stirring some odd feeling in him. It wasn't fear. Squalo didn't fear of anything – on the contrary people feared him. No, that wasn't fear, just something else…  
But he didn't have to ponder about, mostly because the raven didn't; only keeping on shooting him. Two bullets aiming exactly at his right eye and cheek. Fortunately he dodged them in time, barely. Squalo was happy: he wouldn't have to finish his life disfigured or with an eyepatch. Hardly the first assault was avoided than another came, then another, and one more. Bullets were flying everywhere, some flinging in some unknown characters, and some rebounding on the ground.  
The swordsman was dumbfounded. Really, what was the point of being the most powerful swordsman in the goddamn kingdom if he couldn't even approach his opponent? Since they started fighting, he lost most of his time avoiding bullets than doing anything else! That and preventing to have the other idiots in his legs. The swordsman paused a bit, remote enough for the raven to stop his gunfire, eyeing the swordsman with ruby, disdainful orbs, which seemed to tell 'That's all?' Squalo was upset.  
'Che. We're going nowhere like this.' He hissed to himself and, looking aside. 'Can I do it … Or whatever…'  
With a new scheme in mind, he resumed his assaulting. Still six meters to go. First bullet. It was easy to dodge; the silverette skirted around a falling soldier, for one second shying away from the raven's glare. Three meters and a second bullet. For that one, Squalo used one of the already wounded body of someone next to him as a shield. Third bullet. And one meter. Jostled by some fighters at his back, the raven lost momentarily his target; the bullet passed one inch from Squalo's face. He could almost feel the burning of it on his skin.  
One more step and they were practically face to face. But, at the fourth bullet, the swordsman suddenly knelt flexibly right in front of the raven, his blade ready for cutting deeply in his flank. The latter hadn't expected it and the bullet went in a diametrically opposite point than the initial target. He barely forestalled the move and, with a second gun in the other hand, blocked the attack. The tanned man wanted to smirk at the unsuccessful strike; but he couldn't as the still kneeling man threw dust in his eyes, allowing himself to free from the awkward position.  
This time was Squalo's turn to smirk at the irate man.  
'Voi. Bothered by only some shit in your eyes? That's lame.'  
Back from his first astonishment, the raven was angry. And angry like hell. He fired with both gun at the grinning shark. That time the silver haired swordsman didn't try to draw closer. On the contrary it seemed that he was fleeing at the other side of the battlefield. And the raven was pursuing him from behind.  
Some time after, they were alone in a more remote place, both armed with their respective weapons, each one waiting for the other to make the first move. From their spot, one could see the Arno River gleaming under the orange sun – they were actually near the Ponte Vecchio. A beautiful sight without a doubt, apart from the death dual, promise of blood pouring in the pure water. The two fighters were both too engrossed into their own little world at that time, too much to admire anything else but the man in front of each other.  
Squalo was grinning wickedly and panting faintly from his race, so was the raven, at some distance from him.  
'Piece of trash.' The raven stated.  
'Jerk.' Squalo replied. 'Enough running?'  
'Humph. That's my line, scum. I hope you've prayed your Creator, 'cause you're going to see him very soon.' The masked man heaved his guns, aimed at the man in front of him.  
'That is my line.' Squalo acknowledged. His heart was beating fast, some kind of excitement in battle he hadn't have since ages was pooling in his veins. The swordsman wouldn't help but being intrigued in his adversary. He took his pose. 'Voi. Superbi Squalo. This is my name, remember it.'  
The tanned man laughed roughly.  
'I don't need to remember such a shit of a name.' A dark glow in his red eyes. He took off his mask. His face was in fact striking, though dark scars were marring it. And his eyes, God! They were red, bloody, mad! For Squalo, stunning. 'I'm Xanxus. At least know the name and the face of the man who's gonna put an end to your miserable life.'  
One step closer. Squalo had been the one to move. With a hellish speed, he was close enough to wound Xanxus, and yet the latter had been the promptest. He backed a little, enough to aim again at the silverette. The shot went off. And the bullet met the solid blade of the sword. A ferric sound of metal against metal and a small column of flames.  
The tension was at its highest point. Both men were looking intently at their opponent. Not a single time the move of the other's body, every gasp of breath he was taking and exhaling, every single step he was making closer or further, not the slightest detail could pass unnoticed when watched by those killing experts' eyes.  
Another wave of sword, another gunshot, and then again that ferric sound. Squalo could swear that some of the bullets were making holes in his hair, and that the clothes he was wearing would very soon fall to pieces.  
He didn't give a damn.  
For him, it was only rising ecstasy, building excitement, climbing tension and adrenaline mixing in his blood… Then dilated eyes and pant going heavier and heavier with each second, beads of sweat dripping on his temples. The thrill of battle was taking the best of him. The swordsman didn't quite remember who he was fighting with. All he still could understand was approximately what a hunter, a beast, a shark could understand after days, weeks, months of starving: right in front of him, there was bloody meat, some damn, rare, appetizing meat; and the highest class of it, some he hadn't get in a while.  
Well, it wasn't as if the swordsman was actually going to eat the man. However, he had to admit that Xanxus – that was his name? – was a goddamn fighter. Nothing like the low-life scums he always got landed with, or anyone before him… His fine presence, the easiness in his movements, and even earlier, when he was inches from filling his brains with shot. No, Squalo wasn't one of those mentally disturbed ones, constantly looking for any sorts of excitements. But that thrill, those goosebumps the silverette got since he saw those angry red orbs, had never left him.  
Gradually, their speed raised as a result that it would have been totally impossible to interfere in their Danse macabre. However, the one who was trying to catch the other's pace was in actual fact Squalo. The swordsman was indeed a great swordsman, his technique, every assault was perfect, even the greatest fencer ever wouldn't have found a fault with anything.  
But the truth was that Xanxus' level was utterly different. Right from the start, that fight and the many others he had on the place had been for him a kind play, an entertainment. That man in front of him only, that idiot that thought he could play the same game as his, that one was a poor fool. And that fool had annoyed the raven in his amusement more than once, enough for him to let the silver head participate in the fun. Did that man imagine that he was good enough only because he had the opportunity to barely surprise Xanxus on one random occasion?  
An opening. The tanned man took advantage of his higher stature. Clashing blade and gun together, he let go of one of his gun and, with the freed hand, Xanxus pulled harshly at the long silvery mane. He almost cursed at the silky sensation of it – Squalo actually cursed at the pain on his scalp.  
Tugging hard at the smooth locks, he kicked the silvertte at his flank – like a late revenge for the previous unsuccessful attempt on his own.  
Squalo half-bent under the unanticipated soreness. He felt a hard knock on his neck (the gun's grip), blood filling his mouth, and then dropped his sword before falling on the ground. Or rather he would have completely fallen if the tanned man had released his hair.  
The maresciallo's head was spinning a bit, a salty/ ferrous taste on his tongue. He looked at Xanxus behind blurry eyes.  
'Ah! Trash. You don't look that threatening without your damn loud mouth.' Said man snickered, pulling the silverette's face near his. He stuck the barrel right under the other's chin and pulled the trigger. 'Die, trash…'  
BAM.  
There was smoke everywhere. The bridge was pretty damaged at many points, but the two men were safe and sound. At the other bank of the river, a line of guns were still fuming.  
'Maresciallo Byakuran!' A soldier in livery was reporting to an officer. The maresciallo Byakuran had, nearly alike to Squalo, fair, white hair, but it was short. The man was smiling widely in a phony way toward the Ponte. 'We missed the target, but fortunately the maresciallo Superbi Squalo is out of danger.'  
'Good job, Mr. Calligaris. Please take your men and intercept the rebel. And take a doctor for Squalo…'  
'Signore, maresciallo, sir!' Another soldier came. 'The rebel has disappeared! We can't find him anywhere! ...'  
'Oh! He had?' Byakuran's smile widened. He stared idly at the bridge. 'Don't worry about this. If there's no cadaver then the body is still running somewhere. We'll catch him sooner or later. He and his companions… Men, see you later!'  
He waved a hand and turned tails.  
Actually the ruckus didn't last for very long after the two leader's leave. They continue exchanging blades and gunshots, but, at the canon's explosion, the masked men finally withdrew. As if they had never been there, the cavalieri took their mounts and fled away. Behind them were flooding the poor victims' blood – both soldiers' and rebels' – tainting cadavers and awfully wounded men of the militia. The latter side indeed took great damages from the battle, yet at the end they also succeeded in pushing back the insurgents.  
No one found the raven.  
In accordance with Byakuran's prescription, they called a doctor for Superbi Squalo. The brave man said that the maresciallo hadn't suffer much injures, but he still needed an appropriate treatment. Squalo had been found unconscious on the half-destroyed promontory. His officers took him home and put him in bed, still unconscious. One advantage of living by oneself was that no matter in what condition you're going back home, there would be no whimsical wife shrieking with horror seeing your disabled body, noticing that you've lost one eye, one arm, one leg. Besides Squalo had no parents to bother, no children to be bothered with; his life had always consisted in completing his sword and, on the way, serving Florence's duchy.  
During the whole night he was comatose, the silverette went through a terrible bout of fever. It nearly made him delirious, the nurse said. The courageous madam couldn't sleep at all, doing round trip from the bedroom to the kitchen to fetch water and towels to clean the sweating body.  
The next morning the swordsman was up from bed. He was incredibly angry and ashamed with his last defeat, whose last proof was the bandage he had on his head.  
Defeat? What a meaningless word for the silver head… Until he found that man. It had a strange taste, a bitter savor. At first Squalo assumed it was because of some medicines they made him take earlier, or because of the blood still sticking on his tongue… No, that was wrong.  
He, Superbi Squalo, he, one of Firenze's marescialli, he, the unbeaten swordsman, he had lost.  
He had lost to that man, that Xanxus. He had lost to that man's existence, his strength, his madness…  
'Maresciallo? Are you all right?' A nameless soldier asked him.  
The silver haired captain shrugged and beckoned the soldier to go back to his previous occupation.  
The swordsman looked in front of him. He hadn't noticed that, unconsciously, his feet brought him to the marescialli's meeting place.  
The basilica San Lorenzo.  
There weren't many people, that early in the morning (Squalo left his house at barely six). Only few bigots missing for certain Heavenly rest were wandering here and there, or kneeling on wooden footrests, eyes tightly closed and telling feverously their beads. The swordsman passed by without paying them attention.  
With a sure foot, he went in a deeper part of the church, where he knew there was a cloister. There he found a staircase and came up. In the back of the room where he arrived was a huge book-case. As if to take some book talking about human sins, the human condition or a philosophic treatise, Squalo started to stare at each one of the books displayed. At last he took one – a thick volume of Guzmán de Alfarache.  
Right after a dull click could be heard behind the enormous piece of furniture. The book-case pivoted, showing another entrance behind the wall. A hidden room was stretching in.  
A well-chosen committee was already waiting in, standing around an immense, round table. Seeing the tense look on their faces, one could almost say that the distance between the participants had been meant for them not to kill each others.  
'You're finally here! God, what happened to you?' A blonde man we recall as being the Cavallone quaked.  
'Humph! It serves him right. The idiot is continuously searching for a worthy opponent… Honor to whom honor is due!' A big, well-built redhead laughed noisily. Everything in his behavior was screaming the unintelligent fighter. Squalo didn't even cast him a glance.  
'Please, quiet down, Zakuro. Everyone in this room isn't a fanatic of your heavy cackles.' An Asiatic black haired man hissed. Squalo stared at him intently, as if to remember somebody else from his features.  
'Hibari, you don't have to be that assertive.' Another blonde next to him laid a calming hand in his shoulder. 'We shouldn't fight with each others. You too, maresciallo Zakro.'  
'Giotto, you bastard. I already told you not to call me like that!'  
'My, so you didn't have to insult everyone.' A man wearing glasses coughed slightly, staring angrily at the Cavallone. 'By the way does anyone know where the duke is?'  
'Err… He said he won't be in Florence before tomorrow …' The blonde stuttered.  
'I knew it!' Zakuro roared. 'We're all working to death but Signore isn't even deigning show up at a meeting held for his fucking sake.'  
'It's not as if you're actually working, maresciallo.' Hibari smirked.  
'How infantile.' The bespectacled man whispered. 'And it seems that the duke isn't the only one missing.'  
'And what about the others?' Giotto asked.  
'Um. Well Maresciallo Adelheid is on a mission in Barcelona, Maresciallo Verde is with the duke, Lal is currently off duty, and Maresciallo Byakuran… isn't coming. That's what he said.' The Cavallone said in a breath.  
Giotto averted his eyes. Squalo che-ed. The bespectacled man had a tic and Zakuro burst in laughs.  
'Ha ha ha! That man really is the best! Instead of losing his time here, at least he had the wisdom of staying at home. Or maybe was he too tired after saving your sorry ass, shark?'  
'Voooi, asshole.' Squalo shouted at Zakuro. 'You truly are in a dire need of having your head off!'  
'But that isn't wrong.' The Cavallone acknowledged. 'You truly were in a pinch, yesterday.'  
'A pinch, indeed.' The man with glasses nodded.  
'Kouyou. I didn't remember asking for your goddamn intervention.' Squalo yelled.  
'You're being awfully noisy, for someone who had been thrashed just the day before.' Hibari asserted. 'It makes me want to bite you to death.'  
'Hey, the Chinese. Aren't ya in the same position as him? What about your older brother? I heard he had taken part of yesterday's rebellion.'  
Hibari glared.  
'This has nothing to do with such an herbivore as you.'  
'Back to our main concern, what do we know about those rebels?' Koukyou demanded.  
'Ask the shark.' Zakuro insolently raised his chin toward the swordsman. 'He had been more than close to one of them.'  
'You're digressing.' Giotto frowned at him. 'Dino Cavallone, do you have some information about the rising?'  
Cavallone rubbed the back of his head. 'Umm. No. Maybe the duke does… But until…'  
'Tomorrow.' Everyone stated.  
'… We won't know more about it.'  
A sigh echoed in the cloistered room, followed by a minute silent.  
Giotto had been the first to raise the voice. 'There's something I don't understand about their tactics. They gave up their position almost right after engaging the battle… What would be the reason to that?'  
'A diversion, I suppose.' Koukyou seemed pensive. 'After all they didn't even enter in the palazzo.'  
Zakuro smiled wickedly at him. 'And for what reason, a diversion? Ah! Ah! There had been no kind of alert all other the town… At least not in my area! They know not to fuck with me and my men. Hey, shark, you can't say the same, can you?'  
'Trippe del Papa!' Squalo sweared, unsheathing his sword and one foot on the table. That time he was actually angry. 'You're fucking dead, you fucking bastard! Come here!'  
'Stop fighting.' Giotto frowned.  
'Kids.' Kouyou added.  
'Don't argue here, please!' Dino waved his hands franticly. 'If you want that much to fight then just get out! This is a bloody church!'  
The quarrel kept on for some time. At the end it nearly became serious as they all drew their weapons; but somehow, it settled down.  
'So…' Kouyou breathed heavily. He still was fuming from the dispute. 'What's the conclusion of all this?'  
'Che. Do as you like.' Zakuro spitted then sneered at the swordsman. 'Isn't the shark the most involved in this little problem?'  
'It isn't a "little" problem, and this problem is ours.' Giotto said angrily.  
'But, how are we supposed to do?' Dino asked. 'We don't even know their motivation…'  
Kouyou leered. 'Well, well, Giotto. This is only half wrong. The one who had been defeated isn't me, nor you, nor anyone else in this room than Squalo. I propose him to come to a solution, whatever he would like.'  
The reunion was adjourned with that conclusion.

Hibari Kyoya looked rather smugly at the report in front of his crystalline, Asiatic slit eyes, in the half-light of his office.  
From the top of his twenty years, he indeed had all reasons of being proud of him. Young, bright and perspicacious, he was at the head of the most remarkable information network of the country, and surely of the continent, the matchless Florentine intelligence. The web of his organization was spreading his net in countless countries, stretching from the foulest slum's lanes to the most luxury court's carpet. Every little rumor, speculation, official injunction and sentences, everything was quickly and faithfully gathered in front of his onyx eyes in proper form and time. Knowledge is power, ones said; in that case Hibari Kyoya was certainly the most powerful man in Italy.  
However, all that power, all that knowledge in his almost adolescent hands, all was for only one person, and that man wasn't Hibari.  
Nonetheless it didn't bother him that much.  
On the other hand, that day, the information he was acquainted with was about the weird movements of a newly detected group and their only known leader: a tanned, scarred man with raven hair and red feathers tangled in.  
The black haired man glanced successively at the piece of paper and then at his most loyal man – a taller, same age compatriot of his, yet said man looked a tad older than him.  
'Is this true?' Hibari smirked. 'It seems almost too beautiful to be real. I appreciate your usual handiwork, Kusakabe.'  
'It was just a common request, waka.' Kusakabe bowed respectfully, then, eyeing worryingly at the handsome youth, 'So that's how things are… And are we going to do something about it?'  
Hibari closed his eyes. He got up, slightly tugging down at his dark jacket, before heading to the door at the other side of the room with the report.  
'No. Someone else is already taking charge of this case. You should know why.' He stated, one hand on the doorknob.  
'Mmh.' His interlocutor nodded knowingly. 'I heard about the state of affairs running here. So we're withdrawing from this business.'  
'That's how things are.'  
They got out.

'Oh! That's a great job we got here!' Zakuro yelled happily toward the Japanese man, back in the Marescialli' meeting place. That was the day right after the one at the end of which we left our protagonists. The atmosphere was worse than the previous meeting. Nothing had mostly changed in the confined room, the only difference consisting principally in the presence of a moderately strange man with hair whiter than Squalo's. Apart from the white haired man, the all audience had that gloomy look on their face.  
'Hum. I admit you and your fellows succeed in collecting some uncommon piece of information.' Kouyou applauded lightly. 'I always wonder how you can so easily fetch for such undiscoverable precision. For sure it's going to be very useful for us.'  
The other Marescialli nodded by common assent. Squalo unfolded his arms and violently knocked on the desk. He looked particularly angry.  
'Vooi. Quit on throwing flowers at each other! Don't you all dare forget that I am the only one dealing with those traitors.'  
Dino shifted nervously in a corner of the room. Contrary to his friend, he was more composed in his trouble.  
'That is' Cavallone said 'The Duke's arrival has been delayed for some reason no one informed me… So we still are as clueless as yesterday about his personal opinion. But unknowing it I think we shouldn't – I mean you, Squalo – shouldn't lose your temper and go wild only in the light of…'  
'Well, well. Isn't it all right to let him go?' Byakuran chuckled. 'After all, this is indeed his foe we're talking about.'  
'If we let everyone take revenge for themselves and the way they want, what use would remain of the militia?' Giotto glared at the white haired man.  
'Humph! Blockhead.' The bespectacled man whispered.  
'Voooi, Giotto! So you're telling me that I should afford some miserable to toss my pride in the mud because of your overabundant burst of ethic?'  
'Squalo… Calm down…' Dino Cavallone tried to ease the swordsman's invisible wound. He knew more than anyone in the room how much his friend cherished his sword, and the pride bounded to it.  
Hibari frowned 'This is your own fault if you're weak. Don't blame your defeat on other people.'  
'Yeah, yeah, that's right!' Zakuro added. 'You've been utterly defeated once, you'll be for a second time. And by the devil, I won't let my squad be stained by your overthrow if you stay with us.'  
'Silent, you moron! If you don't want to shut it, I'll make sure you'll never have to!' The silverette shouted tensely. If the proud man couldn't stand his defeat, knowing that people had witnessed it, and worse, that he had to face them every day of his life was worst that death penalty for Squalo.  
Byakuran waved both his hands in an attempt of pacifying the quarrelsome Marescialli. 'Oh! Please, gentlemen. Quiet down. We're acting like uncivilized barbarians.' Not only the white haired man, but everyone in the meeting room was starting to get annoyed from the interminable ranting of the two.  
'And this meeting is getting nowhere… Dino Cavallone.' The blond started when he heard his name spoken by Hibari. 'Why is it that the Duke still isn't in Firenze? Didn't he send a messenger?'  
Dino smiled with a sorry expression. 'That's… Seemingly, we've totally lost contact with him…'  
All eyes turned to him, digging holes in his skin.  
'Voi, Haneuma! And it's only now that you're telling this? Cazzo!'  
'What a lack of professionalism.' Kouyou adjusted his glasses. 'And you're supposed to be called his best man?'  
'Ah… That's a bad blunder you've made.' Byakuran contentedly grinned.  
'The Duke has…' Zakuro couldn't believe it and eyed suspiciously at the Japanese man at the over side of the desk. Hibari only smiled innocently at the tall man, or at least as innocently as he could. Which just resulted in a grin.  
'Lost contact, you say… Is it the same for Verde?' Giotto asked, warily casting an eye to Hibari next to him.  
'Yes…' Cavallone sighed. 'I've sent a missive for Adelheid. She'll be back within three days. Lal Mirch is already hunting down any hint of the Duke's whereabouts.'  
In one second the air grew heavier, an awkward silent, more awkward than ever, fell on the Marshals. It's true that they had always had the habit of running each one at their same pace, but that time situation didn't allow them to scatter their strength. Not once since they attended the status of Firenze's Maresciallo did something like that happened. The Duke of Firenze, disappeared right under their watch! It was a disaster an utter shame. Strangely the swordsman's own misfortune seemed insignificant beside it. For the other Marescialli. After some time, Kouyou cleared his throat.  
'Well, sirs. It seems we can no more keep on acting so irresponsibly. Superbi Squalo, with or without your assent, we'll have to work together in order to catch the rebels. We can in no way let the people know of any destabilization in the government.'  
Being a man to whom one didn't have to say things twice, Squalo quite heard him. With a twitch of a silvery eyebrow, he refolded his arms, slightly backing from his position. That was an agreement, though unwished.

They couldn't indeed let anyone know of the current weakening of their organization. With the shameful defeat they've received in the middle of the city, letting anyone have knowledge of the disappearance of their lord would be the beginning of a downfall no one did want to be a witness of. Firenze saw born and die lord after lord, they had pushed back invaders, they had observed the building of one of the most beautiful town in the world, they gave birth to art and beauty. Such an existence, such a presence, how could anyone even think about demolish it for some selfish reasons? That was completely unbelievable for the attendees.  
That thought in mind, Squalo kept his grudge silent for a moment.  
Let's go back to what have made the Marescialli pretty happy about Hibari's news. Needless to say that the content of the report he'd made to Giotto – it was indeed to the blond Maresciallo that he first communicated his report – the content was about the identity of the rebels who had the previous day made an attempt on invading the Palazzo Vecchio. The reader would recall that, for some reasons I shall display later, and even if they had been so close to their target, the attempt failed.  
So about the leader's identity, it hadn't been that difficult to find out who he truly was as at some point of his fight with the swordsman he had the graceful thought to put down his mask, revealing his features to the first passer-by.  
The raven haired man was some noble man, son of a fallen member of the aristocracy, and also, by his blood, one of pretenders of the Dukedom. Xanxus was his name. With that asset, finding out the identity of his fellows was only a matter of time: noble men, aristocrats and partisans of the Duke's predecessor, the whole lot fomenting the dismissal of the current one.  
It was an open secret that the current Duke had earned his throne years ago by murdering the predecessor his righteous cousin. O young ambition it was undeniably.  
The former Duke was actually a kind one, generous with the people, generous with God and generous with his enemies. That was mainly why he had been betrayed. But oddly no one came to complain. On the contrary the weak noblemen only joined the traitor. The stronger ones, those who had seen positively the accession of the new comer, didn't say anything as long as none would dare touch their privileges. The new Duke was younger than his cousin – almost reaching his mid-eighty; still the eyes of the mind only start getting acute when the eyes of the body start weakening. In other words, the previous Duke was one of a wise man, although his wisdom mainly consisted in sparing the ones who's rather have him dead.  
That had been the only sin of the poor man.  
The current Duke, however, didn't have that heavenly kindness. Getting rid of anyone who would have harmed his reign, the year of his accession at the duchy of Firenze had been a real fortunate year for Lady Guillotine. The scaffold surely saw in less than one year more heads than in all its existence: marquis, counts, viscounts, barons… Every noble family, small or powerful, harmful to their perfidious lord. Those days an extraordinary quantity of aristocratic blood stained the place; Xanxus' parents' had been of the party. One would easily assume that it was the same case for everyone of the cavalcade.  
Basically, the previous day's ruckus was for revenge and a more than probable attempt of coup d'état, so Squalo was pondering while descending the steps in front of the church.  
In fact, the silver haired swordsman hadn't been really familiar to all the assassinations that had taken place at the succession of the present Duke. Those facts were dating from ages, Squalo would even swear that at that time he still had just begun to walk. He was no nobleman, no son of any influential politician; in a way or another, the whole story had absolutely nothing to do with him. The silverette had only grown up as a normal child, a normal citizen, before enlisting for the militia and becoming one of its valued leaders.  
Thanks to his godlike gift, the swordsman reached easily his current post. It was truism that looking at a landscape from above shows you much more than if you had stayed on the ground. For the years he had been a Maresciallo of Firenze, Superbi Squalo for sure had witnessed more than what he had ever expected to see when he was still a common citizen. Everyday wasn't necessarily a glad day under the Mediterranean sun. To say the truth it was more nearing an asylum's ambiance than anything else. And in spite of everything, in spite of all the stress, the tension, the danger and the tiredness, the silverette did his job carefully, almost gravely.  
There was no matter of complaining for him. Even if some dreadful whispers about his lord were spreading fast, the fact was that the city, the country and their inhabitants were living in peace. It wasn't ostentation for everyone, but they could manage to live like that. Squalo wasn't particularly a great fonder of the Duke, but he personally didn't have anything against him. Some dictators would indeed continue their misdeeds once they've reached the throne. This one had been more intelligent than that.  
And for the swordsman, that was well enough for him to stay by his sides. This and also the possibility for him to use his sword whenever he wanted.  
Pat.  
'So? How are we doing now, Maresciallo?' Byakuran's cheery voice reasoned behind him. Squalo turned back and glared at the white haired man. Before he knew it, he had left the San Lorenzo. From his spot he could clearly see the glistening of the Arno. It wasn't odd that the strange man followed him as his area was in the same direction.  
'We're tagging along with the plan.' The swordsman spat viciously. 'If you all are willing to, of course.'  
Byakuran beamed joyfully. 'My, my. Can't you trust us? We've worked together for so many years. I thought we got to know each other…'  
Squalo watched at the white haired man with a strange look on his face – a mix of apprehension and hatred. 'This is because I know you that I can't trust you.' He muttered to himself, low enough so that his interlocutor didn't hear that bizarre assertion.

The swordsman's plan wasn't something arduous to put up once all the information about his target, the rebellion's leader, gathered together. They already had all details and precisions about his life, his acquaintances, all the places he could have been, even the names of his former women.  
They only needed to cast out their net and see which fishes would jump in.  
Because of the emergency situation, Squalo had no time to lose. The hunt would be collective, but to each Marshal had been assigned their individual prey. For the silverette it had been with no doubt the scarred man, author of his first and last humiliation.  
A bit later the same day, at sunset, he was trailing a man in a thick coat in the dark alleys of the town. The dim place showed the most sinister part of Firenze: murderers, highwaymen, vagabonds, prostitutes, houses of ill repute… The air itself appeared noxious and unbreathable, for fear of catching the general wickedness. Yet the man Squalo was following didn't seem to be bothered with the surrounding vice. Quite the opposite, the tall man looked somewhat at ease with the filth around him – the silver head even noticed some hands waving at his aim on his way.  
Pulling down his overcoat's hood in order to hide more of his face from the casual observers (finding out that a Maresciallo was wandering idly in those dark streets would surely have create a general panic, and then jeopardize his work), he followed him to some kind of tavern.  
From the outside, the place looked worse than the others; but, Squalo pondered, in the inside it was actually worse. Stench of cheap liquor, of human and animal dejections mixed in concert, infernal grunts and yelling which would have been more suitable for the antechamber of Hell than a human-being's. Shambles, bacchanalia, clamors. Those were the words suitable for the hovel.  
The silver haired fencer watched in disgust at a man sleeping on the ground with a pair of pigs, his nose bridge wrinkling with repulsion as he got a whiff of excrements. He couldn't correctly walk in the waves of drunken people, running, dancing, swaying in his path. At some time he was even on the point of being splashed with some vomit surging from an upper balcony.  
'Just what the heck is that hellish place?' He muttered furiously, bypassing the smelly stain on the wooden ground. 'And just what is that guy doing in here? ...'  
He paused the trail of his thoughts when he noticed with panic that his man had disappeared from his sight. Fortunately, the mysterious man was rapidly found climbing the stairs leading to the first floor. Squalo walked along.  
Happily for him, the first floor's corridor had nothing to do with the ground-floor's orgy. It was indeed a rather quiet spot, more suitable for some romantic tête-à-tête, or – Squalo smirked – for a conspiring assembly. He leaned on a corner wall when the man suspiciously turned back as to check if he wasn't tracked. Reassured, he sighed and then entered in one of the numerous rooms.  
'Che. Guess I have to wait, thus.' The swordsman thought, still hiding in his angle.  
If he had followed the tall man in the room, however, he would have witnessed the present scene.  
'Trash. You're late.' A raven haired man hissed to the newcomer. He was eating peacefully behind a loaded desk, some kind of meal one would never hope to find in a hovel. His ruby eyes weren't even paying attention to the other man. That was a plain clue of their relationship – a lord/subaltern one.  
'Oh… Sorry, Boss!' The coated man took off his hood, revealing a face strewed with pierces. 'I… I had to check if someone was following me… I had a bad feeling since I left home, as if…'  
'Shut up, you piece of trash!' Xanxus roared and threw a knife at the pierced guy. 'You sure have some nerves bringing me in such a slum. I hope for your sorry head that it's for some important reason.'  
The pierced man quivered like a leaf, his face as pale as a tombstone. 'That is, Xanxus… It's about the Duke.'  
It had the merit of getting Xanxus' interest. He leaned back in his throne-like chair, glaring at the intruder. His look still wasn't even like a king looking at his servant, more like a bored child looking at ants creeping on the ground, ants he truly wanted to crush.  
'Talk.'  
'Well… On his return ship, we have, succeeded in luring the Duke and his escort in a dead-end. Everything went along with your orders – we in San Miniato, and your faction here as a diversion…'  
'And I'll have to properly thank some scum for giving me that guignol of a role…' The tanned Italian fumed.  
A shiver of fear went through the deliverer's spine. 'It's… It's not a…' Xanxus disdainfully waved his hand. The pierced man sighed with a deep relief; sweat dropped on his jaw. '… We… We lost him…'  
CRASH.  
In a fraction of second, the table and everything on it went flying in front of the raging leader. The pierced man literally sprawled on his stomach. The commotion was so loud that it startled the Maresciallo outside; he actually came closer to the room's door.  
'You did what?' Xanxus roared to the creeping ant.  
'Forgive me, Boss!'  
Xanxus glared mortally at the man at his feet, and then ran a scarred hand through his raven bangs. His eyes were expressing nothing but hatred and loathing. Yet at the way the pierced man was more and more shivering on the floor, it was obvious that the raven was capable of more than destroying pieces of furniture. Something akin to destroying human skulls.  
'There were only two damn guards with him!' Daggers were sinking in the squatting man's back. 'Two damn guards, a mad scientist and a crippled Duke… How the hell did you do, you fools, to compromise the all thing?'  
'Please, forgive me, Boss! The scientist at least...'  
A trigger resounded in the empty space, and then a pistol shot.  
Hearing the detonation, the silverette unsheathed his sword. At his deeply frowned eyebrows, it was sure that Squalo hadn't expected that reversal.  
'Just what was that?' He thought to himself. 'They're fighting against each other or what…?'  
He was on the point of kicking the door open when suddenly it resonated: glass crashing, and a fairly louder deflagration, and then smoke filtered at the bottom of it. Without thinking twice, he came in.  
In the interior, the smoke was so thick that one barely could see past their nose. While trying to situate himself in the unfamiliar place, Squalo moved forward, looking for his aim. But then he felt something was wrong: something was nearing, nearing him, really close to him!  
The swordsman barely dodged an attack at his left side. With all the powder clouds, he couldn't distinguish his opponent; only one thing was sure: they had to attack abreast, so technically the probability was low that the attack would come from the trigger-happy Xanxus.  
'Che. What a pain.' His piercing gaze scrutinized the dim place. 'I don't have time to lose with some low-life junk. Whoever that can be, just get out from your hole!'  
Another swift move came, followed right away by a second, which he easily avoided. In the dark, Squalo saw nothing that could help him fighting his invisible enemy, so he relayed on his animal instinct – ears to hear the steps approaching, the unknown weapon waving next to him, and even his enemy's breath and heartbeat.  
However, with time the smoke started to disappear. And with the moonlight filtering through a broken open window (the cause of the first, light crash, Squalo assumed), the swordsman began to have an outlook of his opponent: a rather tall, slender height, dark and spiky hair, and at his arms… Was that a pair tonfas?  
'Voi!?' Squalo shouted angrily when he peeked out Giotto's friend's figure. 'What in damn hell are you doing here?'  
Hibari Kyoya only smirked at him, still keeping a defense posture. 'Oh. I'm surprised to see you here, Maresciallo. I thought that you would have been through your mission here.' He added, his grin widening mischievously. 'Well, more precisely, I didn't expect to find you still alive. Shall I remediate to that mistake?'  
His assaults resumed, more swift and accurate than previously. The light and the understanding of his actual opponent helped him greatly in each one of his movements. But it was the same for Squalo.  
Disregarding the fact that he was being attacked by a member of his own camp, he didn't seem to be bothered beyond measure. It was a kill; anyone that had fought against Hibari clearly know that he had little mercy for his prey – as much as the swordsman had. The latter didn't get the sense of that fight, he couldn't even figure out for what kind of reason the intelligence's top was in such a hovel. However the younger man didn't let him time to ponder about all the possibilities given to him. He was waving his tonfas with a more deadly precision; more than once he had the opportunity to strike the swordsman at a vital point. If it wasn't for Squalo's incredible fighting's skills, the silverette would have been killed at least fourth times.  
'Vooi, are you going mad, you fights addict?' Squalo yelled between two strikes. 'Get out from my way! I'm busy right now! ...' In one quick, unexpected action, he almost stabbed the Japanese man's throat. Warned by that, Hibari backed a little, an irritated furrow between his eyebrows. 'Now that you're calmed,' Squalo panted 'Tell me where Xanxus is.'  
'Humph. Why should I? I have no account to give you, Maresciallo.' The younger man grinned. But then, after a quick glance at the window 'Yet, as biting you to death tonight or any other day seems so annoying for me, I'd rather leave now. Good night.'  
And with that, Hibari only bowed and left by a door at the back of the room, leaving behind a dumbstruck silverette.  
'What the hell…?' He cursed. 'For God's sake, what is happening in here? ... Oh! Damn it!' Squalo nodded angrily, his hair wiping elegantly at the bottom of his back. 'Am I responsible for that kid's nonsense?'  
He sheathed his sword and went to the broken window. One glance only showed that the huge hole in it couldn't have been done by some tiny thing: much more as if somebody had jumped through it – out, it seemed, as only few fragments of glass fell inside. Closer, Squalo could even discern blood stains on the still fastened remains. The first floor wasn't that far from the ground, he thought, and even a wounded body wouldn't have died from that height. With a grunt, the swordsman opened the vestiges of the window open and leapt out.  
Hunting some animal in the bright light was something quite hard if you're not used to it in the first place. The affair is more serious when said animal is actually a human-being, when you're not hunting in bright light but instead in dark and narrow alleys, packed with crowd; and this even if the one you're hunting for is wounded.  
But again, Superbi Squalo wasn't anyone, and especially not a neophyte hunter – he didn't earn the nickname of shark for nothing.  
An animal, whatever it can be, always leaves some traces in its escape. For instance, the hints he got after five minutes of running in the middle of the hovels told him that Xanxus wasn't with his servant anymore.  
The only beings that aren't constrained by that rule are whether cadavers or ghosts, and the swordsman was pretty sure that he wasn't running after some kind of spirit. He wasn't pious enough to believe in those.  
"Damn, hope this track won't lead me to the lackey…" the silver haired man muttered to himself.  
And he was right. After few minutes, he could clearly hear a loud crash behind an uninhabited house. A shadow ran furtively to the side of the street. Squalo recognized Xanxus by his high stature and the feathers on his neck.  
"Well" He thought "I'm grateful I didn't follow the wrong hare…"  
The black haired man was fighting against someone; the superhuman race of their battle was mind-blowing. The swordsman wondered, bewildered, who was the man who could equal the rebellion's leader. But then he saw them: that spiky blond hair, those eyes glistening with something like fire in them, and the Maresciallo's burning gloves; it was Giotto.  
It was the first time that Squalo saw the blond man fighting, and he had to admit it: he was doing very well. Giotto didn't have any weapons but his gloves, which were literally emitting flames. A pretty awesome spectacle indeed. But the most awesome fact was his speed: it was epically stunning. No wonder how it was possible for him to tag along with Xanxus'; they were both almost even, and so their moves couldn't have been caught by mere humans' eyes.  
Xanxus unloaded the content of his magazines on the blond Maresciallo, each shot meeting a well-managed parade. At some time though, the blond seemed to slightly overwhelm his opponent, only slightly; but in those kind of mortal fight, that could be already enough to get rid of his adversary. Giotto took advantage of a blind spot to give an accurate strike on the raven's shoulder; the latter involuntarily bowed down – one last blow on the head and the match was over. Everything happened in barely one minute…  
Until Squalo's appearance right at the battle's peak.  
Too engrossed with his own battle with the rebel, Giotto hadn't noticed Squalo, who had literally jumped on them. Meticulous calculations or stroke of luck, the fact remains that the swordsman succeeded in interposing in the current battle, and even more than that: he successfully dig a generous wound in the man's arm. If Giotto hadn't faster pulled back his arm, there would have been any use anymore of his right glove.  
'Agh!' Giotto yelled painfully when he felt the burning metal in his flesh. '… Squalo?' He looked speechless at the shark, backing up a little. 'What do you think you're doing?'  
Stepping aside from Xanxus and without withdrawing his sword from Giotto's arm, the swordsman replied, grinning madly, 'Voi, I should ask what do you think you're doing with my prey.'  
Both men stared agape at the silver haired swordsman. Giotto furrowed infuriatingly, turning off his flames. With a great effort, he pulled the blade out of the bleeding flesh and, showing the scarred Italian with his valid hand. 'Can't you see this? I'm arresting a dangerous dissident. You're hindering my work, so can't you leave so that I can finish what I had started…'  
'Vooi. I don't remember sharing my trophy with anyone!' Squalo shouted toward Giotto. It only seemed to annoy him ever more, but the Maresciallo didn't lose his temper. Instead he squeezed at his wound to prevent a loss of blood.  
'Superbi Squalo. Should I take that as sedition?' He asked with dark eyes.  
'Maresciallo.' Squalo answered with a parodied pompous tone. 'You can take it as you want, because it would be exactly the same thing for me as long as it won't suit my purpose.'  
For the first time that night, Giotto smiled – though a sad and sorry smile. 'Well, that's truly a stab in my heart. I would have never ever expected you to bite your master's hand…'  
He lit up again his flames.  
'Vooi. What are you talking about? You're not my master…' Squalo didn't stop leering. His sword glistened in the night's moonlight. '… And don't make me sound as if I was betraying the duch-… '  
Bang.  
Trickles of blood on the cobblestone.  
The shock had been quick and almost imperceptible. The shark only tottered on his feet when a scald suddenly made his way in his stomach.  
'Ah?... What is…?'  
Unconsciously he brought his free hand to the burning spot: thick blood was pouring from it, in a ridiculous amount. The ferric scent was maddening, and the stain was only getting warmer and warmer as he held it. It made the swordsman pale with alarm. Squalo turned, or rather jerked to Xanxus' side to see smoke fuming from one of his guns, the raven's eyes glaring at him, dreadfully, pitilessly.  
The silverette tried to make a step ahead, but he just fell lamentably. His sword dropped with a ferrous noise, his long, silver hair gradually stained with hot blood.  
Slowly but surely, coldness was starting to replace the heat of the swordsman's body.  
…  
'Ah?... What is…?' Those were the only words the swordsman could utter, right before falling down. Giotto watched the all scene with appalled eyes. He made a move to pick the wounded Marshal's body, but Xanxus blocked his way.  
'Trash. What the hell do you think you're doing?'  
'And you?' The blonde Marshal asked, terrible. 'Isn't Squalo a friend of yours? Why did you have to shoot him when he just saved your life…'  
Xanxus burst in laughs.  
'Are you talking about that pathetic scum? Stronzo. I don't need weaklings with me, and even less their help. By the way, isn't that trash one of your acquaintances instead of mine? If your lousy brain still is working, you should remember he had been fighting against me last time we met…' The raven looked aside, to a corner building. In any case, the place was too dark to see anything. His attention finally went back to Giotto. 'However, this isn't something a duchy's puppet like you would understand.'  
Giotto opened his mouth to retort to that cutting remark – and actually all he could do was opening his mouth as, all of a sudden, a lightning went hitting the house at his left. The construction was old and high framed; it didn't take time for it to collapse. A huge crash: the lightning practically destroyed the house, its walls, the entire framework and the roof. If Giotto hadn't moved rapidly, he would have been lying dead under the rubble, by now.  
'Hey, hey.' The marshal muttered, while dusting himself. 'Thunderbolts don't habitually fall right next to people. And when they're doing, people would have nothing to tell, since most of time they would be dead. Let's just bless my lu- Ah!'  
A second lightning fell, that time almost killing the fair haired man. Now, that was strange: sky seemed to take a point in erasing the marshal's life from Earth's surface. With his diabolical speed, Giotto fortunately succeeded in surviving to a divine-like punishment.  
But then again another lightning, then another and another one, each one falling inches from the marshal – they would have killed him if it hadn't been for Giotto's speed. It was more than certain that those weird waves of electricity weren't a natural fact. They had to come from somewhere near him.  
The row was dreadful, and in the same time amazing. Discharges of light kept on falling down on Giotto. They were lightening the street, every time eliciting deafening din and a smell of burning, and making rise an opaque smoke from the ground. It was even more astonishing that the ruckus hadn't stirred the entire district awake. On his side, Giotto was doing his best, but he barely could avoid getting hit by the lightning. More than once he felt a feathery burning on his skin or on his clothes. The worst for him was, the more he got attacked, the more the ground got destroyed, which, with the rest of the previous house, was fatally hindering his run.  
'Damn.' He finally cursed. 'How could this even be normal? There must inevitably be some kind of trick…' He then scrutinized the dark corner Xanxus primarily looked at. A movement. Vague and indistinct, but Giotto sure saw it. He dashed to the spot where he caught the sight of the shadow, in the same process lightening his gloves, thunderbolt still on his heels. The marshal directly smashed in. He hit something – more exactly someone, a man. The latter, succumbing to the strike, emitted a dull cry when he fell down. With that easy triumph, the thunder ceased. Finally getting some rest, Giotto looked at his assailant's face: it was the same man who had been in the hovel with the raven, some time ago.  
'I knew it. A flame wielder.' Giotto murmured before turning back to where he left the tanned man. It wasn't that simple to try to spot anything with all the smoke and dust covering the scene. Still on his guard, the marshal forced his way in the mounts of rubbles, rest of the previous house. He effortlessly found the place where he left Squalo: there was a huge puddle of blood spreading on the ground.  
But about the shark himself, there was no trace left.  
Same case for Xanxus.

That was purely shameful. Pretty predictable and even logical, and yet shameful for the marshal. He just let go of a dangerous dissenter, one of the rebels' leaders, very probably. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. However, if they had called for reinforcement during the battle, maybe he wouldn't have managed to fight them all…  
'Oh. That's right!' Giotto remembered suddenly and ran to where the second man was lying. 'That one still must be there.'  
But again the same disappointment: the man wasn't there anymore.  
The marshal ground his teeth with anger. That night had been a complete failure, mostly due to his negligence. Giotto was pacing back and forth, ruminating those dark thoughts, when Hibari arrived.  
'Ooh. You made a pretty mess here, didn't you, marshal?'The Asian boy smirked while looking at the chaos the fight had left. The blonde answered with a frown.  
'Why are you coming only now? Where were you all that time?' Giotto stated furiously.  
'Humph. I wasn't going to participate to that low-level battle. I have better things to do other than that.' His grin widened when he was the puddle of blood. 'So how was it?'  
'A low-level battle, you say…' The furrow on the marshal's forehead deepened, a sigh escaping from his lips. 'Is it even worth mentioning it? I failed. They escaped. There was someone else with the rebel to cover his break; a man with the thunder attribute.'  
'Oh. So they can use flame. That's fine.' It didn't shock Hibari more than that. He squatted above the puddle and grazed at it with his tonfa. 'You don't seem injured, and I don't think someone who had lost so much blood could have escaped you that easily. Or at least without someone's help.' Kyoya turned to Giotto and stared at him with his deep obsidian eyes. 'What happened to the shark?'  
'Squalo is… I'm not sure about his state.' The marshal replied after some time, his face expressing a profound uncertainty. 'Actually I don't even know on whose side he is.'  
He then narrated his entire fight with Xanxus, how he almost defeated him before Squalo's entrance, how the latter fell after getting shot by the man he just saved, the lightning falling on him… Though his Japanese friend didn't seem to pay attention to his story. He even yawned at the end.  
'So,' The blond marshal asked after he finished. 'And what do you think about it?'  
Hibari got up and stretched himself while yawning, again.  
'Well, one may conjecture many hypotheses from that. Like the marshal finally losing his common sense, or…' Hibari's eyes darkened. 'He coming to some sort of agreement with the rebels…'  
'Do you think so?' Giotto asked. 'But if they were allied, why did their leader shot him? That I can't answer…'  
'However my thinking has nothing to do with what we're doing next, hasn't it.' Kyoya cut drily. 'Anything those weaklings want to do, I don't care about. Whether they split up and eat each other's flesh, or gather together like a herd of cows, it changes nothing with the fact that they're all herbivores I'll have to bite to death.'  
Hearing that, Giotto's face lightening up a little. He smiled and sat down.  
'Of course, you won't care about such insignificant matters. After all you're Hibari Kyoya.' Then more seriously, he added: 'Yet I'm worried. What we're going to do, it isn't something we can easily accomplish. And starting from now, it's going to be more and more painful for us. Even for you, Hibari.'  
Said man looked at him disdainfully. 'Mmh? Are you possibly referring to my brother? That herbivore is just more idiotic than the others. It'll be ever funnier for me to bite him…'  
Giotto waved his hands with embarrassment. 'Ah… I got it, I got it. But I wasn't alluding to him… Ahem. Weren't you and Cavallone childhood frien-'  
This time, Hibari glared dangerously at him. 'Humph. He isn't my friend. I've never been that herbivore's friend. Ever. It just happened that our parents knew each others, and that his house isn't far from mine, that's all.'  
'Oh, is that so?'  
That childish fit of temper, from a grown-up man like his friend, made Giotto laugh. But not for so long, because seconds after, seriousness gained his features.  
'So you're still staying by my side.' Giotto sighed gravely. 'I think you've already understood: from now on our task is getting more arduous, with that new opponent's appearance. Still I don't want to shed blood vainly-'  
'Huh. This I know already.' Hibari Kyoya mocked. 'If that wasn't for you, I would've got rid of that old geezer of a duke since long, instead of bothering Kusakabe to…'  
Giotto hushed him.  
'You shouldn't say things like that out loud. But I won't say I don't understand your annoyance. That's true, until now we've always risked our lives for a dream which, right from the start, had only been mine. I'm selfish and I know it, and ever though you're still here. I thank you for this.'  
The Japanese man gazed at him with dull eyes. He yawned for the third time.  
'You're boring' He said whilst yawning. 'I'm just tagging along with you for now, as long as you won't forget you owe me a fight when you'll get crowned.'  
'Ah ah. Didn't you know, Hibari? Firenze's duce doesn't wear a crown.'

Thus we arrive at the decisive moment of our story. As you've already noticed, Firenze is right now torn between the greedy ambitions of powerful men. Each one, treasuring their ideals and resentment as if they were the most valuable treasure in their hands, each one is endeavoring to steal what they deemed is their natural possession. This is what they call their pride; this is what they call their code of honor. Those men have been struggling, conspiring, compromising themselves, maybe since years ago, to get where they're now.  
O ambitious soul. You play with challenge, your aim – and this is why you're a real ambitious one – seems to be to climb as far as you can. Where you're going isn't important. May history not judge those individuals too rapidly, as the little they can show to future generations is the color of the blood they're pouring. May the heavens not condemn them too severely, as they're only showing humanity's darkest – or perhaps most beautiful – side.  
Now let's leave Giotto and his own dreams of glory, since you certainly want to know what happened to the silver haired marshal who had disappeared so curiously under the blond's nose.  
So, leaving those dirty mazes of the township, we're jumping few streets farther, and if you pay enough attention, you'll see a man (the one who previously got knocked out by Giotto) running like a madman in the middle of the populous via. As you'll see him again later in the story, for pragmatic purposes I have to introduce this absurd character by the name of Levi.  
Levi was breathing heavily; one could almost trail him because of all the sweat he was leaving behind. Even if he looked so despicable in his hurry, it wasn't as if he didn't know where he was running to. Not even stopping once or asking someone his way, he ran directly to the Arno. Once in front of the Ponte Vecchio only did he remember that it still was impassable because of the previous day's bombardments. On the other hand, the roads weren't sure for people like him since the raid: now many troupes of armed soldiers were patrolling at every nook of Firenze. Levi met ten or so of them on his way, as a result he had to slow down and look the most natural possible not to get caught.  
Then running again, when the soldiers were out of view, to another bridge, he reached the other side of the river. He didn't stop until he got to a small chapel (more than certainly the most modest among the city's pious places), hidden behind taller houses and trees.  
Two horses were tied on the front.  
After eyeing carefully at one of the horses, Levi came in and, making the sign of the Cross, he knelt down in an apparent piety. There weren't a lot of people inside; after all it was already far into the night. However, not far from him, two men were sitting side by side. One of them had hair as white as snow; a huge hood was hiding half of his face. The other one's skin was tanned, his angry, bloody eyes not once giving the illusion of a prayer. They weren't looking at each other, and yet one gave the impression of knowing quite well the other as they were discussing pretty familiarly.  
'Now you should thank me, Xanxus.' Byakuran muttered. 'It's the second time I'm saving your head from the executioner's axe.'  
'You bumpkin. Don't get too cocky.' Xanxus grunted menacingly. 'Even without your help, I easily could have disposed of those lowlife tramps of combatants.'  
'You're being rude again.' The white haired marshal sighed and sneered. 'And what would have you done of your special luggage? Ah, you see. Not that easy.'  
Xanxus frowned. 'This has nothing to do with you. Keep your damn mouth shut and everything will be alright.'  
'I didn't say anything, I didn't say anything. I'm giving you a passport to get out safely from Firenze. Isn't that a gage of my sincerity?... Well, if I suppose that he'll still be alive until you get out…'  
Saying that, Byakuran gave him a tiny parchment folded so many times that it looked like a nut rather than a piece of paper.  
'This is not for you to worry about.' Xanxus stood up and went to the front of the nave. Levi automatically followed him. The raven opened a door hidden behind a curtain. After crossing a common room, they ended in a stable where a groom was waiting for them. Hardly did he see them that he ran to Xanxus.  
'New horses are waiting for you, sir.' He stuttered, crushed by the weight of the tanned man's bloody eyes. 'They're coming right from Lord Byakuran's personal stable…'  
The tanned man didn't even cast a glance to the boy when he went round the loose-boxes. He then stopped in front of a pile of hay. There was lying, bleeding, wounded and amid life and death, the silver haired swordsman. His chest was heaving up and down painfully. His face was drowned in sweat, and though his eyes were shut close, his face was expressing nothing but pain and hurt.  
He was the special luggage mentioned by the white haired marshal.  
'Did he wake up when I wasn't here?' Xanxus asked the young boy.  
'Not once, sir.' He answered pitifully. 'His wound seems to hurt like hell. I've tried to stop the hemorrhage as you told me, but maybe I should have called for a doctor. Even now I think it's not too late, I'll go find one right-'  
'You won't. You just put him on the back of one of the horses. We're leaving. Without delay.'  
Pale with horror, the kid followed Xanxus' order to the letter and, after pulling a vigorous mustang to the patient, he carefully brought Squalo on his back. In spite of the fact that the groom boy moved him the most slowly possible, almost carrying him totally on him, the swordsman whined. More blood went soaking an emergency dressing. Levi watched the all scene, mouth gaping.  
'Lord Xanxus!' He got indignant. 'We're not bringing him with us, are we? He's a marshal! And more than anything, he's injured. He's just going to slow us...'  
A glare from the raven made him silent. Xanxus in his turn climbed on his horse and, while taking the bridle of Squalo's mount from the hand of the groom boy:  
'We're going first. You, trash, are covering up for us.'  
Without further ado, he spurred his horse. Right after both his and Squalo's mount started moving, but slowly and never exceeding trot.  
This way they left the chapel. The wounded marshal's body was concealed under a thick cloth. Xanxus lowered his hat's brims on his eyes and pulled his collar up. Morning was already breaking on the horizon, but fortunately there weren't people to see the strange procession.  
The raven avoided cautiously the streets with patrols, it made their trip to the city's periphery last even longer. The all parsimony was actually getting on his nerves. Every time he had to turn back because he saw a group of soldiers coming to him, it made his teeth grating with anger. But for some unknown reason Xanxus put up with this and followed the labyrinthine corridors of the town.  
In the end they reached the Porta Romana. After leaving Firenze, they still travelled for hours and hours under the sun – unless the heat was giving the raven that illusion – on dusty and unwelcoming roads. Before them there was nothing but the bushwood, garrigue, stones and again garrigue. The landscape was dull and strenuous. The summer sky was almost crushing the two travelers with its weight, the scorching sun not once giving them respite. Even the wind was burning and skinning pitilessly the raven's face.  
One the road, they didn't meet a living soul. Not a single traveler, not a single inn to get some rest. From time to time Xanxus would pull the cloth from Squalo's face to check if the shark-like swordsman still was alive, or if he had to throw his corpse to the crows. The marshal, though, was in spite of everything giving faint signs of life. The raven smirked at him and replaced the cloth.  
After some time, at long last the countryside started to change from a desert to a more clement one. The bush was little by little transforming into grass, greenery was beginning to show up here and there, and a sweet scent of lavender was slowly but surely filling the air.  
It seemed like even the sky was becoming more clement, covering itself with cottony clouds. There still was no one meeting the equipage, but the wide fields of vines, spreading on the horizon, were a promise to find habitations sooner or later. Already the road was beginning to be bordered with cypress and stacks of hay were showing themselves more and more often.  
Meters further, a village was finally revealing itself. Xanxus quickened the pace of the horses.  
…  
A strong scent of lavender, indeed. It was mixed with an odor of almond and rosemary; all together they gave the sensation of a typical Mediterranean summer.  
The heat wouldn't decrease; the sun still was hitting hard on the skin, so one can only bless the coolness given by the numerous pine trees, plane trees and oaks scattering on the way. There must have been a fountain or a river in the surroundings since a shepherd was leading his herd to cross the plain. One could easily hear the sheep's bleating, the dog's barking and the man mooing after his flock, in unison with the jingling of the animals' bells.  
The entire little crowd was going by the hill, when Squalo woke up from his two-day slumber.  
Silvery eyelashes slowly cracked open, revealing one pair of greyish orbs. They still were tired and sleepy, so it took quite some time for the silverette to take notice of the place where he was. When he understood that the room he had been sleeping in was totally unknown of him, his senses sharpened, but not that much: the anesthetic still were having some effect.  
'…Where am…'  
He was in a spacious bedroom – more exactly in a large bed in the middle of the spacious bedroom. Like this, bathed in the sunray, the room looked warm and welcoming; but many hints (the dust on the cupboard, the painting going a bit dull from the sun) clearly showed that it hadn't been used for some time. The furniture surrounding Squalo were quite old and out-of-fashion, but it sure was emitting an opulent and upper-class feeling. At his left, a door was shut close, probably locked from the outside. On the other hand, at his right was an immense glass roof opening to the last rays of the day. Outside was a balcony full of vegetation: begonias, amaryllis, lilacs, cyclamens,... They were countless, each one exploding her beautiful and ardent colors. All that flora was the cause of the agreeable scent which was filling the bedroom.  
Squalo tried to get up. He did but at the price of a dolorous stinging in his abdomen.  
'Hurts…' He bit his lower lip and put a hand on his wound. The swordsman however was reassured when he saw the injury had been perfectly treated. Squalo got to his feet (too fast, actually. It made him felt strangely dizzy) and went to the window.  
'You'd better not wake up yet, unless you want to spit your guts out.' A voice suddenly rose from behind him. He looked at the newcomer. Squalo had to rub his eyes and frown to recognize the man who was standing before him: that was Xanxus.  
'Voooi. What in this world are you doing here?' The silver haired man shouted violently, but it just caused another stir in his stomach. He had to lean on the wall to sustain himself up.  
'What, you said. This is my house, you fool.' Xanxus gave him tit for tat. 'Go back in the bed already. It had been a drag to keep you alive till now.'  
'Huuh? You are the one who shot me, aren't you?' Squalo yelled even louder, not caring about opening his wounds again. 'Ku…'  
Finally, convinced by the burning, the swordsman sat back on the mattress. That pain could have been enough to kill a normal man Squalo, fortunately, wasn't.  
'You're a stubborn idiot.' Xanxus said before sitting on an armchair near the window, legs crossed and one hand supporting his chin.  
'Shut it. And just why am I here in the first place?'  
The raven stared at him for some time without saying anything. It was as if he didn't know himself for what purpose he brought the swordsman to his retreat, and was debating violently in his inner self for a suitable answer to come with.  
'…Can't you simply thank the Heavens for still being alive and stop talking?'  
'Voi, who could do that, in this kind of situation? I warn you as from now: I absolutely have no value as a hostage or anything. The others would rather be happy of knowing me dead or-'  
'For God's sake, can't you keep quiet for one second?' The raven grunted. 'If I knew your voice would give me such a headache, I'd have let carrion eat you alive.'  
'You bastard!' The silverette shouted. 'I've asked nothing from you. On the contrary, you are the one who wounded me! Now that you've abducted me, God only knows for what reasons, don't start to say I'm being loud, damn it! And where the hell is that godforsaken place? Jesus, I should have let Giotto do anything he wanted with you back then, it would have saved me from the bullet in the stomach…'  
He continued like this for a moment. Xanxus frowned and pinched the brink of his nose. He was looking like a mother who doesn't know anymore what to do about her turbulent child, rather than a ravisher. Squalo was still yelling and yelling annoyingly, tirelessly. The more he listened to the annoying swordsman, the more Xanxus regretted his first (and last) show of humanity. At last, exasperated with the silver haired man's non-stop ranting and raving, the raven got up, which made Squalo quiet, and went to the door. He opened it.  
'Anyway, you're not moving one inch from here. By no means. Someone's going to bring you food and change the dressing, don't make a useless fuss and let them do.'  
Before leaving he lastly turned back to look at the silverette who was glowering at him from the bed.  
He paused for some time when he caught the gorgeous silhouette of the long haired man, standing out on the window behind him. The silver of his silky hair was contrasting with the lurid red of the flowers outside, his greyish eyes perfectly blending with the blue sky, his porcelain skin merging with the clouds. The furious, and vicious, look of him was only increasing his beauty.  
Seeing this priceless captive of his, Xanxus added with a smirk: 'I won't be back before tomorrow, so until then be quiet and wait like a good child.'  
He quickly got out and closed the door before Squalo could continue his renewed tirade.  
'Damn.' The swordsman cursed inwardly. 'Know how am I supposed to go back to Firenze? This is that bastard's retreat… Like hell could I guess where this place is.' Saying that, he lied down. The pain still made his features grimace. 'Well, it's not as if I can go anywhere, wounded like this. Let's wait for some better news…'  
Nevertheless Squalo hadn't counted on the gravity of his injuries and his weakened body. Barely had he closed his eyes that he fell into a deep slumber which had last for almost three hours. In point of fact the silver head wouldn't have ever awakened if it wasn't for the arrival of his nurse.  
The nurse, at first sight, didn't look at all like one. She was a young girl (she was about twenty, not more) with a big, dark hood – her entire attire was actually black – hiding half her face. It wasn't rare to see young women wearing that kind of clothes. They were all part of the same congregation spreading almost everywhere in the region.  
That girl was quite small, too, but her horrible personality was compensating for her smallness and youth. Not once giving a second thought about the patient's pain, she tore the bandages brutally, yet skillfully, and with a professional rapidity which screamed experience. On the surface the gash left by the bullet looked quite fine: it wasn't bleeding anymore.  
'…It's already better than what I saw three days earlier. It's a miracle in itself that you hadn't died because of the blood loss before arriving here. Still it will take one week, maybe, to heal totally. Really, I can't believe I'm doing this for free…' The girl whined while tying the bandage.  
'Is that something a nun should say… It hurts!' Squalo complained when she tightened the dressing.  
'Humph. That's the wrath of God for speaking nonsense. Who in this world decreed that God's servants shouldn't get paid for their services?' She silenced and, once her work over, started to gather rapidly her surgical utensils. 'By the way, I've never seen your face here before, and I don't think you're one of the Lord's allies. That man isn't one kind of letting anyone sleep so idly in his apartments, and moreover fearing so much for their life that he'd call for a medical assistance…'  
Those words left the silverette dumbfounded. He looked at her inquiringly. When she saw his oblivious face, the girl sighed. 'Aah. This isn't something for me to poke my nose into. I'll only give you one advice: if I were you, I'd never get out from this room, with greater reason draw people people's attention to me. They don't like the current duke very much, outside…'  
She got up and left silently, leaving Squalo alone again in the bedroom.  
He was disconcerted by what he'd just heard.  
'So I'm really trapped here, huh. Just why the hell did he have to drag me here?…' He groaned, losing his heart. But then a thought crossed his mind: 'Wait… is it possible that…!'  
That last thought didn't delight the swordsman at all.

At nine, the dinner arrived. The servant who brought it was, contrarily to the nun, perfectly quiet. All he did was to carry the meal in and, without even looking at Squalo, he fled out and slammed the door behind him.  
The meal wasn't appetizing at all: it only consisted into something that looked like a puree of vegetables and meat, bread and wine. Quite frugal from a noblemen like the raven.  
'What?' Squalo grunted cynically. 'Is it because I'm not healed yet? Damn, that's too much of kindness for someone like me, sir.'  
One hour later, the bellboy was back to pick up the dishes.  
Then again, Squalo alone.  
The swordsman wasn't sleepy – he assumed that, those last three days, he had slept enough for one week. He nonetheless couldn't plainly use his body. So all that was left for him to do was to stare into space, and here the space was made of all the objects filling the room. As I said before, they were old, and in all honesty there was nothing really interesting to see. However the shark was idle enough to start doing so; he began with the portraits hanged on the wall.  
They were retracing the entire line of the house's occupants, from the first to the third or fourth generation. On some of the paintings the silver haired man recognized Xanxus: Xanxus as a child, a teenager, and finally the adult Xanxus. He hadn't change much all over the years; the same bloody red eyes, the same spiky raven hair, the same frown, and that look that seemed to say "Get lost, you stupid humans". He really hadn't changed at all, the swordsman thought amusedly, but quickly felt guilty for thinking so casually about his ravisher. He wanted to rapidly change the thread of his thoughts, but since there was nothing else to focus on, he had to look at the other portraits.  
As for the other faces on the paintings, Squalo more or less was familiar with them too, mostly with the one that came right before Xanxus': he had been one of the oh so many noblemen who passed on the scaffold, many years earlier, at the advent of the current duke. But that detail, the silverette had somehow seen it coming.  
Finally there was nothing left to see anymore.  
That night it had been hard tricky to lie down. Each position he chose would infallibly extirpate moaning of ache from the swordsman. He however kept on rolling all over the bed until he found a pose that permitted him one way or another to sleep. The only problem was that said pose resulted in him facing directly one of the portraits, the one with the adult Xanxus. At that moment even if Squalo couldn't care much about the flaming orbs glaring at him, he nonetheless felt quite embarrassed to sleep that way in the man's bed.  
'… Just forget it.' Squalo mumbled.  
The few candles that kept the room enlightened had since long put out. There was nothing illuminating the bedroom save the moon's rays which were filtering from the open window. A gentle, fresh air was coming in, caressing the swordsman's back and hair. He still was looking at the portrait. In the silvery brightness, it didn't appeared that dreadful, just a bit grave and severe.  
Squalo' eyelids were getting from minute to minute heavier. Little by little he couldn't keep them open any longer; once more he fell asleep, but that time, whilst remembering his fight with Xanxus, and whispering his name in his breath.  
…  
They were eyeing at the vale, two horsemen, both – in spite of the heat, even if it was already dark – wearing dark cloaks. Perhaps one hundred meters away from them, there was an old abbey. It was an old construction, the same that had bloomed during the Crusades period. Basically it was a church, the constructors just added habitations and few more utility rooms around north where there was a stone chapel built in the Silvacana's abbey style, although it was so timeworn and shapeless that nowadays none could say anymore what was the purpose of that building. A real shame, indeed, for our national monuments. Back to the abbey, adjacent to the chapel was a cloister which shared a wall with a refectory. However that's a story from long, long ago. Today it's just a stack of stones and rubble that dust and sun eternally tainted into a yellowy-greyish color.  
And that deep-rooted and abandoned construction, after years of being ignored by human kind, finally caught the attention of those two men; yet at their faces one could guess that sight-seeing wasn't their purpose at all.  
Night had fallen about one hour ago, the plain was void of people, from the cavernous howls and cries of some owls and foxes, nothing was disturbing the threatening dimness of the valley. From time to time a soft wind would make high pine trees' leaves tremble and draw neighs of gratitude from the horses.  
"Trash. How long do we still have to stay here?" The tallest of the two riders demanded furiously.  
"My apologies for dragging you here, my lord, but the scouts we sent are missing right now, and we're really short of men." The second smiled with a polite air of contrition, but right after regained the placid composure of a professional assassin, though it was a strange expression on the teen's features. "All we know is this church is the last place where they have been seen, besides some villagers we talked to affirmed that-"  
"I'm not asking you that, voi deficiente. Where are the others? Didn't your scum-like friend go ask for reinforcement?"  
"… They're arriving soon, sir. But the next base is miles away, and the roads aren't sure. It will take him one hour to reach our companions, and one more hour for them to get back here, so at least two hours. He left half an hour ago… So don't expect him before one hour and a half."  
Xanxus was fuming with rage. They were the ones who asked for his services and now they were making him wait? He, Xanxus, had to wait for a bunch of trashes? That was an aberration. The raven was a man of action, he wasn't meant for waiting; even the simple idea of having to fight with others was already stirring violent waves of wrath in him. They both stayed motionless for ten minutes, the new moon sky perfectly hiding them in its murkiness. Each second, long, painful, mind-numbing second, seemed to last one year for the tanned man. At the very last, the raven, fed up with the never ending wait, spurred on his horse. The animal turned back to the abbey, first as if he was about to go down to the other side of the hill, but that was wrong: Xanxus was actually heading to the old construction!  
Now, why was that realization that dreadful? The answer is quite simple, in fact.  
The abbey, just like many abandoned or still occupied houses on precise points of the map, were what they called "relays". After the aborted attempt to abduct the Duke, the relays were the places where the opposite faction – now known as Giotto's group – brought the old man. No need to say that the security was at its maximum at each post. Their goal was to secretly bring him out of Italy, hence not to stir his allies' eyes on them. At the relays, the Marshal's men had to keep him hidden for few days before new "torchbearers" would come and pick him up for another relay. Their work had been perfectly synchronized, as if they were parts of the same body. Xanxus' squad had hellish trouble locating them with their incessant moving. But after three days of nonstop tracking, insomnia, and sometimes clashes between the rival blocs, they finally caught them in that tumbledown abbey, and better than anything, without them knowing.  
Xanxus' mount was galloping to the church, nostrils puffing clouds of sweat, tail whipping at his own the end,the second horseman, who had been apprehensive about the raven deciding to attack the abbey by himself, went after him. They reached the enclosure. Fortunately for them, no one was guarding that side of the area.  
'Of course, they don't want passers-by to see strangers mounting guard in a tumbledown church. That would look sleazy, 'Xanxus thought.  
After leaving his horse and walking along a dusty wall, his guns already loaded in his hands, the raven got to a subsidence, which he stepped across to finally enter a sandy court. It was directly communicating with the entrance of the church. However, it was no good the dark haired man looking for it, but he could find no lock or handle to open the iron door.  
"Damn. Only opened from the inside?" He muttered, ire once more boiling in him. He was about to shoot the door open when the teen, who stayed quiet behind him all the time, drew his attention to a trap door near them. He pulled at a hook to open it. Seconds after the two men were striding in an obscure underground passage. It was cold, long and sinuous, like a labyrinth. Water was oozing from the stone walls, it made the ground slippery. They wandered like this, in the dirt and the darkness for quite some times before seeing, at the end of the corridor, a weak light behind a wire mesh. They stopped when they heard voices. They could see no face, though, since the voices had come from the other side of a small room, probably the capitulary room.  
"He's been quite still, don't you think?" A man said.  
"Doesn't surprise me. He's certainly tired from the last ride from Arezzo. After all he's past his sixties." Another one stated then yawned. "And tomorrow we still have to go to Sienna…"  
"They don't know about this corridor?…" The younger man whispered next to Xanxus. He utterly ignored him. Of course they did know, unwise why would there be guards posted at that place?  
"It's been tiresome for everyone, dude." A yawn again. "Anyhow what time is it? It's Renzo and Mosè's turn of guard tonight."  
"Still one hour to go, pal! Ah! Ah! Ah! You really can think about nothing but sleeping and eating, can't you?"  
"Hey, hey." Another greasy laugh from this man… until he received a burst of bullets in his body.  
In spite of everything, Xanxus had been pretty patient with them to put up with their inutile chitchatting. He hadn't waited in the dark, in the mud and in the cold to hear two idiots talking about their stupid life! That had been enough. Loading his guns again, he kicked the mesh and, without losing one second, and before he could recognize him, fired at the only man who was still standing up. Luckily for the poor man, it didn't kill him; it only opened a hole as big as a wrist in his thigh.  
"Ah! For God's sake!" He cried and pleaded while creeping on the ground.  
The tanned man was about to fire him through the head when his companion stopped him. "Lord Xanxus, wait! Maybe he can guide us to the Duke!"  
"Feccia, you'd better know where the old fart is…" Xanxus hissed to the injured man. The latter was trembling like a leaf, many kinds of human fluids starting to pour from his body orifices. Half disgust, half anger, Xanxus pulled him back on his feet and pushed him to go ahead. The guard, whose leg was bleeding and aching, however complied and left the room, the two intruders on his heels.  
Nonetheless, with the huge racket he did, no wonder sentinels from the entire abbey gathered in the minuscule corridor they were crossing to stop them.  
"Crap, an ambuscade!" The teenager cursed whilst drawing his sword.  
Although it didn't bother Xanxus. They were about twenty men waiting for him at the end of the wall, maybe less, surely more. The raven grinned.  
"Scums. The Lord up there despairs for retrieving your souls…"  
With no hesitation, he almost jumped to the assailants. Their bullets were of no use against the raven. It seemed that they were just slipping on his skin, without ever touching him. He quickly reached them, and his bullets, for sure, did hit the attackers. Five minutes later, everything left of them was an inform stack of flesh and blood. He turned back to the prisoner.  
"Now, where's the Duke?"  
"Th-the last door on the right…"  
The raven smirked and as a thank you, burst his brains out.  
The younger one almost retched when he saw the mess left but the gunslinger. Twenty-three. There were twenty-three man killed in half an hour by only one person, an ominous and in the same time awesome fact. The young man would have wanted to save at least one…That was a sign of weakness. He knew that more than anyone else.  
At the moment, they had to find the Duke. Xanxus didn't lose his calm, not once during the entire massacre. He found the door of the Duke's jail and (and it was amazing how much Xanxus loathed using his hands for other purposes than holding his guns and shooting with them) blew it away with a bullet in the lock and a kick in the jointure. The room was reeking of dead rat and mold. The old regent of Firenze was sleeping right on the dirty ground, hands and ankles tied with a rope. Even with the bag on his head, tightly tied at the base of the neck, one could hear him snoring like hell. So alike great lords, Xanxus thought cynically, they can be totally dead to the world even with their worst enemy next to them.  
Outside, footsteps and yells of anger could be heard, and if you've ever been to Italy, you'd know that a screaming Italian is, most of time, a swearing Italian.  
"We have to go, lord Xanxus." The teen said, frowning. "There must be more of them outside. Those men were probably just here to warn the others in case of a raid."  
That was right. They couldn't simultaneously "take care" of the duke and the horde of infuriated soldiers. They had to get out of that wasps' nest. Xanxus, fuming like a pure Italian, was on the lead, the smaller was following him from behind, carrying the Duke (who somehow woke up from his slumber) on his back, both walking rapidly in the previous passage. It was even more arduous to walk with the extra luggage, and now they were sure there would be a welcoming committee at the exit.  
And, yes, a welcoming committee there was, but they didn't last long. This is something you should never do when you when you trap someone.  
First, don't stay too close to the mouse's exit. You never know what kind of projectiles – whether they're bombs, dynamites, or simple pieces of glass – the mouse can throw at you.  
Second, never get conceited because you have numerical superiority, mainly when you end fighting in smoke or if you didn't respect the first rule.  
Third, it doesn't matter how many weapons you have when you can't use them on the battlefield. You can have ten or so canons aimed at your adversary, if you can't reach them, they're just a waste of place.  
And fourth, the "dying like a man" thing is just a comedy, an illusion created by fiction. When you die, you die. Yet, have some mercy for the people who are going to collect your dead body by at least not soiling your pants.  
…  
They got to the mounts (fortunately well hidden). It took time to outdistance their pursuers, but they did it, after a lot of whipping, spurring and gunshots, only to end up at daybreak with horses fully saddled grazing with no cavaliers near them. At daybreak, both Xanxus and the teen's horses were fastened to a tree's trunk, in the middle of nowhere, a vast plain with nothing on it, no one to see them, no one to ask for help if needed.  
The Duke fully woke up during the pursuit – it would have been weird if he didn't. His fat stomach was squeezed like a lemon on the back of the young swordsman's mount. He heaved a sigh of relief when he felt someone (the bag still was on his head) putting him down and releasing him from his restraints.  
"Ah! Jesus…" The old man breathed deeply when the bag also disappeared. "At last some air, the sun, nature, and that damn, hellish bag that smelled like rat finally gone. Gone!"  
He laughed and waved his arms up and down (those were the same movements old people use as morning training). Every time his advanced stoutness was following the rest of his body, his bald forehead glimmering under the first sunrays. He was truly glad to be at long length freed from the dirty dishtowel and his kidnappers, even if that meant being abducted by other people again. However when he turned to look at his saviors – more exactly, when he saw the raven's face – his expression changed drastically: he was paled with horror.  
"You… You!" He stuttered as Xanxus glared at him. The Duke practically fell backward, his skeletal knees (which were clashing with his entire physiognomy) so much shivering that they couldn't hold him still. A rest of dignity allowed him not to turn back to his offender and run away in the desert land. "So you finally came for me… Eh! This I can understand, Xanxus…"  
The tanned haired man didn't say a word. He just put off the safety of his gun and aimed at the Duke's forehead, the barrel so near it was almost touching the skin.  
"Adio."  
Bang

That mission had been really really annoying. He had had plenty of them for years, but that last one with Xanxus had been… barely bearable. The man was either grunting for everything and nothing in particular, or killing people with no reason at all, for the only pleasure of killing. Anyway he was glad the job was over, and mostly because he didn't have to deal with that madman anymore.  
Or only one more time, just one. With the assassination of the Duke, it was agreed to organize a party. Since Xanxus was the "hero" of the day, the party was unilaterally decided to be held at his home, the familial country house, where he actually lived only during his childhood. Yamamoto wasn't that pleased to see the Italian lord again, but the perspective of meeting with some of his best friends somehow encouraged him.  
The young man (dressed in a hurry in the only acceptable clothes he could find) passed under a portal, where he bumped into a bunch of giggling, floured and lavender reeking noblemen and women. The sun was about to set down so lanterns were lit up almost everywhere in a flowered and convivial courtyard. The celebration attendees were picked out within the raven's parents and closest acquaintances, so the young man wasn't surprised to see essentially habitual faces: friends, cousins and, rarely, distant relatives… but he was actually astonished not to catch sight of a young and handsome silverette within the crowd.  
He was scrutinizing the gathering, with no success, when his eyes laid on the second window of the first floor of the ancient manor: there he thought he caught the sight of a silvery mane, even if it had been for a fraction of second. It startled him. He wanted to call at his friend, Gokudera (he was quite sure that the person at the window was with no doubt Gokudera Hayato – as silver hairs aren't that usual), but the window suddenly shut again. It left Yamamoto with his hand hanging up, and a stupid look, half smile, half surprise, on his features.  
"What the hell are you doing?" A familiar voice all of a sudden asked behind him.  
"Ah? What… It's you, Gokudera." The swordsman recognized his silver haired friend.  
"Of course, it's me!" Gokudera Hayato frowned. "Who else could it be?"  
"Oh, sorry. But I thought I just saw you at that window, that's weird… Has your hair always been that short?"  
"Huh? Stop talking nonsense, you idiot. And this is that cracked up Xanxus' room. There's no one in there, not even the owner."  
"Now that you're talking about it, I haven't seen him yet. That's odd."  
"Well, from a man like him… You've been on a mission with him last three days, haven't you?"  
Yamamoto smiled awkwardly. "Ah… About that…"  
… Squalo closed the window. He'd been trapped in that bedroom for four days (one week, actually, but conscious only four days) and, for once, something interesting was taking place in the garden… All right, not that interesting. Only an aristocrats party. After five minutes of it, the silver haired swordsman was already fed up. Plus there had also been no one to talk to, damn captivity. Since their last conversation (or the semblance of conversation) he had with him, Xanxus didn't appear again.  
"Damned be that bastard. Next time I see him I'll kill him for sure. I can't get out from here, all I'm allowed to do is eating, sleeping and keeping quiet… I'm tired of all of this!"  
And with a roar of anger, he kicked his armchair. It elicited a stir of pain in his stomach: Squalo often forgot about the bullet recently extirpated from his guts. Of that pain, too, he was fed up. It forced him to live almost like a paralytic the entire day; a paralytic or an old man, for Squalo that was exactly the same thing. He was longing for his endless hours of training, of his sword, of fighting, not to lie on bed all day and all night long and eat that foul taste soup. But his sword, they took it away from the swordsman. The door was always locked from the outside and at least twenty guards were patrolling night and day in the yard. Trying to escape meant instant death, which was really stupid. He'd rather leave Xanxus' manor on his legs if possible.  
But it's been four days. For someone who's always been used to overwork and overdo everything in general, that forced holiday was like a penitence, a torture worse than torture.  
Outside, the ambiance seemed to be quite the contrary. The guests looked as if they were enjoying themselves. The silver haired man could nearly hear what they were saying to each other, and listen to the music played by a small orchestra under a booth. Adagio ma non troppo. Real noblemen indeed.  
It was pitiful. What saddened the Marshal the most was what he was doing: spying on strangers (yes, they were all criminals, but however…) from his room. It reminded him of the old lady who was living in a house near his in Firenze. She was always putting her noise in other people's life, watching at them behind the curtains of her window and badmouthing her neighbors. But she was an old woman, too, with nothing to do of her life, a widow with no children and no family.  
So currently, Superbi Squalo's existence was at the same level as that old gossip lady's. The only difference – another subject of pride for him – between them was that at least the ol'lady could step outside when she wanted to. This was the saddest realization in the poor swordsman's entire existence.  
"Scopata. Better get killed." He muttered.  
Four days. He hadn't seen Xanxus in four days.  
"Vooi. It sounds as if I wanted to see him or whatever. Che. Damn bastard."  
He slumped in another chair and crossed his arms, brooding a little. Four whole days. That may sound repetitive, but in point of fact, this is something the proud silver haired man would never admit to anyone, even to himself: he kind of missed the raven's presence. Just once more. He wanted to fight with him once more, to stand on the same battlefield as him, to witness more of the dark man's radiance. Instinctively, he knew that he had no chance against him, nevertheless, once more… He could remember the fast thumping of his heart when he first met Xanxus. That had been the encountering of two bloody beasts, two monsters that craved to devour each other. Just thinking about the thrill, the quiver, the delight he felt that day made Squalo's blood running quickly, his breath accelerating, the hair of his neck rising up, his pupils dilating…  
The sound of the door unlocking startled the sword master and woke him up from his reverie. Without him knowing, he was already up to welcome whoever was going to break that deadly circle of boredom, but his blood leapt in his mouth when he caught sight of spiky black hair crossing the entrance.  
Squalo couldn't put into words what he really felt at that moment. In his stomach, there was a weird rumbling mixed with the impression of having got up too fast. The silver haired swordsman was analyzing every little detail which had changed in Xanxus. He was wearing travel clothing, they still were dusty because of the travel. Squalo knew the tanned man would never answer him frankly if he asked where he had been those last days. And, seriously, he didn't want said man to believe that he cared about him enough to worry about his state. No matter what, he still had his pride as a man.  
"Voi, stupid Xanxus." He grinned. "You look happier than usual. Something good happening to you? Maybe did some idiotic chick you found on your way?"  
Xanxus was actually happy. Even on his features constantly distorted either by disdain, disgust or wrath, the great miracle of happiness could also shine. Well, barely visible, in all honesty, but it's all the same.  
"It's the first time you're calling me by my name, trash." He stated while leaning on the wall next the silverette. He crossed his arms.  
"Huh? Are you really paying attention to stuff like that? Pathetic." Squalo huffed and sat down. Of course if the raven was pleased, it certainly had something to do with Firenze and his vendetta. He didn't even need to smell the evident scent of gunpowder and blood on the raven to understand it. As being a guest whose life was depending on his host's mood, it was in the swordsman’s interest to keep quiet about his own camp's fate… "So what? Did you make a mess of Firenze yet? By seeing your damn sadistic face enlightening this much, I guess many bloody idiots are gone to meet their maker."  
Who sincerely believed the shark would just sit down and keep quiet, obviously know nothing about him.  
"Humph. You're not the slightest woeful for your friends. Who's the worst between us?"  
"Voooi. I have no need of weaklings to be my friends. They were merely good as punching balls during my training hours."  
"Cracked up shark."Xanxus leered.  
"Silly gunslinger."Squalo smirked.  
The balance, the oh so thin and fragile equilibrium between the pair of assassins was unsteady and breakable, but may God be witness, the equilibrium did exist. It wasn't the nervous agreement concluded in order to remain quiet in each one's corner and never invade the other party's place. It was twisted and beyond human comprehension, strange and comfortable in the same time, but the two opposite entities, against all odds, were getting on pretty well.  
Squalo hadn't forgotten about the payback he had to get on the raven. But that could wait. He'd waited for four days, five more minutes wouldn't kill him. It was kind of relaxing, in one way, to stay like that with the raven (of course, when he was in a good mood). The strange thrill even now was present, but a different sort. It wasn't as pressing as before, but for sure it was more disturbing. The bizarre sentiment of comfort he felt and the alien quiver in his limbs got the silver haired man puzzled, nonetheless he let nothing of this show up on his face.  
A sudden knock on the door.  
"Come in." The dark haired man said.  
Two servants carried a small table in the bedroom. They put it just between the raven and Squalo, next the window so that they could plainly see what was happening outside, then set the table for two persons before inviting the two men to sit.  
"Now what the Hell's that?" The silverette stared suspiciously at the table. It was beautifully prepared, with all the candles and decoration things, so beautiful that it was creepy.  
"Learn to appreciate what people are giving you, scum." Xanxus sat down and poured some red wine in his glass. "This is to celebrate a late payment from an old acquaintance."  
'Obviously.' Squalo thought. He sat down opposite the tanned man, but didn't take anything. "Ah so. Then forgive me not to curtsy right now in front of you. You know, the bullet in the stomach and everything."  
The dark haired man che-ed. "You really can't live in the present, can you. It's been already one week."  
"Shut it!" The swordsman yelled furiously."Voi. If you think that it's all fun and all to get shot, next time I'll do the shooting!"  
"Aah? Next time? Did you plan on squatting at my home any longer?"  
"Voooi! You locked me here! You brought me here in the first place so don't complain!"  
"Noisy trash."  
"What did you say?"  
"I said shut up."  
It took away the little calm the silverette had. Superbi Squalo was indeed an incomparable sword master, a brilliant Marshal and a man with a high sense of pride. But when it comes to arguing, if the disagreement didn't settle within the two first sentences he uttered, then you should prepare yourself to undergo one of the most childish tantrum in human beings' memory.  
And that day he was injured. If he had been fully healthy the swordsman would have since long kicked the table and anything surrounding it, including the unlucky person whose fate made them having dinner with the shark-like Marshal. Five minutes later, the situation was looking like a domestic argument more than anything else. Squalo wasn't aware of this fact, but him making a scene was pretty getting on with the previous image he had of his disappointing life. For him, the diner was over, but he had no choice but stay on his seat.  
"Hey. Is that all?" Xanxus asked after the silverette finished his infernal rant.  
"Did you ever listen to what I said!?"  
"Yeah. Anyway don't you want to have a taste of this?"  
He pointed at the bottle of wine. Squalo shrugged. Not thirsty, he said. "Don't be stupid, trash." He poured a generous amount of it in the silver haired man's glass and brought it to his mouth.  
"What are you…" doing, Squalo wanted to say, but silenced when the thick liquid made contact with his tongue. He gulped it down as slowly as he could, with the raven's hand on his chin forcing his head to tilt back and drink faster. "Gah!" He panted when Xanxus finally released him, the wine leaving a rosy trail on his jaw.  
"So? How was it?" The latter smirked. The swordsman frowned while searching for the suitable curse to shout at the dark man, but with no success. The red liquor was making its way in his blood veins, gradually warming his body and making his head spinning. It took few seconds to render his tongue heavy and his vision blurry.  
"Not bad…" His mouth processed to articulate. "Bitter… and syrupy."  
He licked at his lips. They were glimmering attractively in the semi-darkness, the candle light making his sinuous features even more graceful. The frown between his eyebrows slightly faded and his silvery orbs were more penetrating than ever, Xanxus noticed. He was definitely drunk.  
"Hey, trash…"  
The raven leisurely lowered himself to the silverette's face, then softly kissed the tempting lips.  
"Wha-what… Xanxus…" Squalo muttered but didn't rebuff the kiss. He let the raven's tongue slip in his mouth and stroke at his insides. "Mmh…"  
The swordsman didn't quite understand what he was doing. He did know what he was doing, he did know with who he was doing it, but he couldn't tell why he was doing it. All he knew was that it felt good. He didn't fell this good since… Well, actually he'd never felt this good, ever.  
He leaned on the table before putting his arms around the raven's neck. His hands found their way in the man's spiky hair.  
Xanxus' warmness.  
It was everywhere on him: on his skin, on his clothes, in his breath…  
"Xan-… Xanxus…"  
The raven moved him forward to the bed, unhurriedly. The silver haired man let himself being pushed. His mind was so engrossed by the kiss he didn't notice when they laid down on the silken sheets. Xanxus started stroking gently at the swordsman's hips, little by little descending to thin thighs before going up to his chest. The silverette shivered when calloused hands made contact with the bare skin of his neck. They soon enough went fondling at the silver mane. While the hands were busy caressing the entrancing locks, the lips moved to the swan-like throat, the soft, pallid and beautiful swan-like throat. Squalo moaned lightly, whispered inaudible words to the raven, his arms still locked on the matter's back and his fingers, from time to time, grazing at the tanned face. His moans were growing louder and louder with every caress, louder, and louder until…  
"Voooi! It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!" A yell from the shark.  
"What?" The raven finally detached himself from the silver haired man's neck, which was blossoming with hickeys.  
"Your hand, damn it! Your hand!"  
His hand? What on the earth was he… Then Xanxus understood: his hand was pressing against the bandage, where a blood stain was gradually spreading on. He forgot the man was still convalescing because of his wound.  
"Cazzo."  
And he was right to be upset. Beneath his the smaller man's body was practically screaming with want and begging for him. His shimmering hair, from which the raven couldn't take his eyes off anymore, was scattered on the bed, his cheeks, slightly growing rosy, and his lips swollen red. The swordsman's unbuttoned shirt was half revealing skinny shoulders, too skinny for someone whose entire life could be resumed in one word: fighting. But not only the shoulders, his body, his perfect legs, his curved waist, his lean arms… It was all for him, but he couldn't do anything!… And because of himself. That was the worst.  
It was no good. He slumped next to Squalo, who was twisting in pain and rolling right and left whilst gripping at his wound. Curses weren't an option – they never are with the swordsman. The dark haired man couldn't imagine anything worse than that.  
"Stupid piece of trash. Stop moving."  
"You bloody bastard, I'll kill you! Voi stronzo , stupido ritardato! …"  
"Shut. Up."  
The raven quickly pulled the silverette close to him (and in order not to touch the injury, he deliberately grabbed at the latter's ass). Now he had the silverette facing the window, his back against his torso. Squalo, of course, tried to struggle, but in the end he gave up and let Xanxus molest him whole-heartedly.  
"Porco demonio, Xanxus, voi maldito bastardo, you'll pay for this…"Squalo grunted.  
"Good night, scum."  
He was a lost cause, the silverette thought to himself. Fortunately the wine was doing its effect. Half an hour later he was fast asleep in the raven's arms.

Why was that man so submissive? It was almost disappointing. Who would believe that the same man with the piercing glare and the oversized pride would just let a complete stranger sleep next to him? Yet, Xanxus had to admit it, the sensation of the long and velvety hair against his face, the soft skin of the shark-like swordsman's shoulders, his scent, his presence, having him so close to him…Everything was perfect.  
Hell. What was going on with him? The raven never needed anyone or anything to comfort or reassure him. But this one was simply… Different. How to put it with correctly… New? Refreshing? Totally illogical?... Damn, what's the point? He only wanted to stay there. He felt at ease with Squalo lying against his chest, a form of peace and calm he hadn't known in years. The latter's breath was light and composed. Xanxus liked to hear it. He already had many occasions to listen to it, when the silverette was still comatose, few days earlier, in the same bed where they were sleeping in.  
Indeed, he had had many occasions.  
Since the first time he laid his eyes on the proud man, on that fateful day on the bridge, the very existence of Squalo annoyed him. This man wasn't loyal to the duke, he wasn't even loyal to his own country. No, the raven could tell that with no doubt, the silver head was purely a fighter. He wanted nothing but battlefield, he craved for nothing but the blood of his adversary on his sword, and he was actually taking pride in that side of his personality.  
Squalo was no foe to him. Or at least, for the silverette, it wasn't into such material matters as politics and assuming power. It was only about thrill. Thrill and excitement. And the most stupid thing was that, just like a disease, the silverette passed said thrill and excitement on him. Was it because of the two fiery orbs locking with his, never breaking eye-contact, as if there was nothing else in this world apart from both of them? How foolish. Idiots like him died every day in Firenze's gutters. They would live as naively until another piece of trash, more or less idiot than them, killed them, before getting killed as well.  
Xanxus lightly stroked the silvery mane and nuzzled against Squalo's neck. Consciously or not, the silver head shifted a little, letting him more access.  
This idiotic swordsman almost died, too, the raven pondered. This is what you get when you stick your nose into everything. Just like a whim, he shot him, in the abdomen. Squalo lost liters of blood, but somehow achieved to survive. Leaving Firenze with an excess of luggage had never been in the tanned man's primary plan. This had the merit to stir Byakuran's curiosity. After all, why would Xanxus, the usually cruel, intransigent and single-minded Xanxus, save the life of a mere stranger? He couldn't tell why. He thought the answer would come naturally once they would get out of the town.  
The answer didn't come. Instead of answers, the raven just got more and more perplex.  
During three days, he spent hours in this bedroom, staring at the sleeping long haired man. His sleep wasn't even. That surely was because of the pain. It looked as if he was having a nightmare: he was sweating a lot, frowning constantly and holding tight at the sheets. Mammon said that it was the fever's fault, that it was inevitable and that, even if she arrived in time, this didn't mean the swordsman's life was totally safe yet.  
So Xanxus waited, waited for the silverette to wake up from his slumber. For three days, he had no other décor around him but this old room with furniture belonging to another people from another epoch. After one day, the place was giving off a stench of both blood and age. However, if Mammon hadn't told him that the second day, Xanxus wouldn't have noticed. They opened the window wide. All the fragrances of the rustic Tuscan ran into the bedroom. At long last a gentle breeze went caressing the burning skin of the sick person.  
It seemed that was precisely what was needed to soothe his fever. The next day, he was already relatively fine. His face was finally serene and his body less tensed. Of this sight, Xanxus couldn't get fed up. He could watch Squalo sleeping without moving from his place on the armchair. His eyes traced the outlines of the half-naked body lying on his bed. Surprisingly, the silverette had a really slender and rather delicate frame. His body had nothing to do with the common and rough soldier: graceful hands, thin arms and legs, sublimely curved hips, narrow shoulders and bony chest heaving up and down, up and down...  
Years of fencing didn't leave any ugly sequels on the unblemished skin; his musculature wasn't extravagant at all – if even musculature there was: that man's build was actually closer to a courtier than a real fighter. Xanxus guessed Squalo would have had a lot of success if he had chosen that lifestyle instead of being a Marshal. But, again, the foul mouth…  
Oh, but it wasn't only the body. The face also was irresistible. Since the swordsman was finally sleeping tranquilly, Xanxus could at long last catch a clearer glimpse of his features. As a matter of fact, the long haired man could show a peaceful and carefree expression. Like that, he looked like a child, and, the raven conceded, this altogether with the androgynous body was a pretty nice combination. Nice enough to be deemed a worthy partner in bed? Now the nobleman's thoughts were leading him somewhere he didn't want to go.  
He, sleeping with a man? How stupid. He could have any woman he wanted, whenever and wherever he wanted to…  
Cristo santo,so why did I lose all that time idly watching this man sleeping?  
Nonetheless Xanxus was quite sure the silverette could be at least as good as the average woman.  
And that night, precisely, Xanxus could have seen his suppositions confirmed, except the re-opened wound. Now he could taste more accurately Squalo's presence: it was a mix of unusual warmth – the warmth of a living person – and Squalo's own scent. It was fleeting, but the raven could swear that was coming from the swordsman: a weird, manly and in the same time subtle scent. It was vague, and in the same time filling the entire bedroom. Xanxus dove his face in the absurdly long hair to get a whiff of it. Addictive.  
And lulled by Squalo's breath, the dark haired man fell asleep in his turn.  
…  
He dreamt in his sleep, and it had been rather strange. An odd mixture of present and memories from the past – a remote past in which he still wasn't living like a renegade.  
He saw again his family's immense castle, right in the middle of Firenze, now redeployed into a vulgar shack for the current duke's soldiers. The only thought of it made Xanxus' blood boil with anger.  
Anyway, back then he was a teenage boy, a future adult, and the only inheritor of his father's name and fortune. No need to say he was the most capricious and unbearable kid the castello ever saw living within its walls. The little prince Xanxus, don Xanxus. The boy everyone respected and feared (the second sentiment always more present than the first one). Or more exactly, they feared for their life: for the younger raven, a human life meant nothing, could and was reduced to nothing. Never once he showed repentance for a murder, and never once anyone tried to stop him.  
He could kill, steal, dishonor and still he remained signore Xanxus. Any of his immoralities was passed over in silence, and one hour later he was the little prince Xanxus again. His father was powerless. Everything was going smoothly for him: nothing on his way, no one to stop him, never. Just like a tempest in the middle of the sea.  
He could remember it all: the luxurious paints and vivid tapestries covering the immense walls of the manor, the flamboyant and exotic flowers blossoming in the English style garden, everything glistening of gold and silver. Outside, a little chapel (maybe the most humble part of the mansion, in the same way as that old chapel in Firenze) where he used to bed the most beautiful women of the town. And also the precious woodwork in his father's office, bathed in the half bright-half dim orange light of the fireplace – a room that was supposed to become his, few years later. So much luxury for his young eyes…  
Then suddenly, in the middle of all that splendor, a silver flash. Heavy greyish irises. A slap on his face. Slightly blushing cheeks, and his right one burning faintly after the hit.  
This last memory woke the raven up.  
Next to him, Squalo was still, sleeping and facing the window, his back to him. In the garden, the party was over. Xanxus rubbed his face with one hand then propped himself on his elbow, looking at the dark and clouded sky. No moon ray. It was a quiet and motionless night. What had he been thinking about? More exactly, what was that alien impression? Did that sort of thing really happen?  
"How useless." Xanxus muttered, sat on the bed and rearranged his clothing. He had been wearing the same clothes for days. He felt disgusted. The young lord got up, the weight on the bed shifting after he left. The tanned man immediately missed the warmth of Squalo's body, which instinctively sprawled on the empty space of the bed. That simple-minded one surely was having a good time. Xanxus eyed at him somberly.  
Fortunately for the sleeping silverette, a growl in the raven's belly, out of the blue, warned the latter physical needs didn't only consist into sexual ones. He glanced at the little round table where their dinner had been previously served. There was nothing left anymore but two candles out since long, judging from all the wax at the candlestick's foot.  
'Damn brainless servants.' The raven cursed in his inner self, and, walking to the door, he added, 'they better have something ready for me or I swear to God…'  
The raven hadn't finished his sentence when, once he got out of the bedroom, he came face to face with a sumptuous banquet still fuming, as if it had just left the oven, dished up on a tin sideboard. Next were two valets in their recognizable white liveries, each one holding a lit candelabra in his hand. It seemed the boy-men had been waiting for their master throughout the night, as their faces were accusing heavy eyelids and red eyes. This, however, didn't disturb Xanxus beyond measure.  
"You," the tanned man said to the first valet, "bring this to the bathroom. And you (to the second one), bring me new clothes. Affrettarsi."  
Xanxus rapidly lead the march in the long and dark corridor, the first footman following close on his heels, pushing the piece of furniture in front of him. The raven finally stopped in front of a wide wooden door. The footman pushed it open. Behind was a huge bathroom in a fashion that betrayed obviously the landlord's aristocratic origins; and in the middle of the bathroom, a bath tub full to the brim with hot and perfumed water, waiting specially for the raven to come. With no ceremonial, Xanxus got rid of his travel clothing, throwing them uncaringly on the paved floor, and then got in the tub.  
The tanned man groaned with satisfaction when the water made contact with his skin. He spent so many days under the sun and in the dust he almost forgot how it was to relax lazily in sweet-smelling water.  
The water was splashing everywhere outside the stoneware tub and was quickly dampening the ground. The valet with the dinner, however, didn't seem to notice that detail. He just neared the sideboard close to Xanxus, then made two steps backward, waiting silently for his lord's next orders. Other servants arrived almost at the same time, some bringing garments, some bringing shoes, some just coming in the bathroom to pick up the dirty clothes and dry out the ground. Two of the servants – female ones – after taking care of the lord's clothes, poured unguent and salt in the hot water.  
The spacious room was gradually growing warmer. The air was starting to get thick and white, and big droplets of water were slowly covering the stone paved ground, walls, sticking on the tan skin of Xanxus' muscular torso, on his broad shoulders and neck and dark hair. He rested his arms on the edge of the tub and casually took some raisin from a bowl, next to him.  
"Let them in." His deep voice resounded behind the steam.  
Hearing that sentence, all of the domestics bowed then left the bathroom. Simultaneously, a white spot appeared in front of the Italian lord.  
"Ya. You look like you're all right." Byakuran said with a false smile stretching his lips. "I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier. You know, the maresciallo's duties and all…"  
"Come to your main point." Xanxus cut the white haired man drily.  
"Oh, is it a way to welcome your guests? I guess it can't be help. Because it's you, I'll let it go. So, why did I come here for…" Byakuran moved to a chair and sat down. "It's just to tell you you're a lucky man, Xanxus. I've never seen Firenze in such a state of panic. Good god, driving to a Maresciallo and abducting another one, it's not something one can see every day, not even in that city. I have to applaud, Xanxus."  
The raven's eyed darkened. "Cut that crap right now. I'm not talking about this."  
Byakuran got the message very clearly, yet kept on showing anything but dread.  
"My, you want to know about that? I think you can deduce what happened after your little raid: nothing. Purely and simply nothing. For Firenze and the rest of the world, the duke still is alive. He just arrived from Ravenna, but on the way his convoy met some brigands. There are too many of them running freely all over the district, lately. So many people start to ask themselves why they still are paying taxes to keep the army up. At any rate, this explains the late arrival. But unfortunately, the duke caught an unknown disease from the other side of the country. You're certainly aware of this. Ravenna's harbor has never been somewhere safe in the first place. That's why the duke couldn't leave his palazzo since last Tuesday, bed ridden. Maybe tomorrow or after tomorrow they'll announce the old man died of pox or something in the same fashion. The people will cry. The pope will laugh. And in the end, another duke will be nominated. I raise my glass for you, my dear lord."  
Byakuran finished his report by raising his hand as if there actually had been a glass in it, and then laughed lightly. Xanxus grunted.  
"What about the other successors?"  
"A bunch of poor, coward, little scaredy-cats. They're clever enough to know when to keep their voices down."  
"And the Marshals?"  
"They'll listen to what the town's Council will decide. They won't make waves. They don't have the guts to do that. I guess the only ones standing on our way are…"  
"Our way?" Xanxus hissed. "Since when is this our way? Don't get the wrong idea, you scum. Right from the start, you have no word to say. Say anything and you'll end up like the other old man."  
"I know, I know." The white haired beamed derisively. He crossed his legs and leaned an arm in his kneel. "I mean, your way, my lord. The only ones left are… Well, Giotto and his little pupil. But they can be pretty dangerous, Xanxus."  
"Humph. Mere insects."  
"Now, you shouldn't tell that. That's rude."  
Byakuran didn't believe a word of what he was saying. The tanned man was perfectly aware of that fact, still apart from the white haired man, he didn't have any other connection in the heart of Firenze. It was hard to guess what the maresciallo bianco was thinking about. He was no candid like the swordsman. Only, if he sensed any threat from him, he was ready to erase that man from his sight.  
"Get out." Xanxus demanded. Byakuran got up and said good bye with his usual expression.  
The raven was alone again.  
'Giotto and the Japanese kiddo?' he thought. 'They were nothing. They meant nothing. The Council, I already have them in the palm of my hand. They'll dance for me like the puppets they've always been. All those lowlife trashes, all those cowards…"  
And with a secret thought in his mind, Xanxus burst in laughs. He was practically having hysterics. It was an appalling scene to see. It only stopped when someone knocked imperceptibly at the bathroom's door.  
"What?" Xanxus roared. The hand at the doorknob trembled.  
"Scusatemi!" A shaking voice pleaded. "Signore Xanxus, Signore Leviathan is asking for an audience with you. I already told him you still were in your bath and would only receive important personality, and yet…"  
"Stop blabbering like a sniveling dog, you scum! Let the other trash come in!"  
Right after Xanxus' order, heavy steps neared the bathroom's door. A tall and dark shadow stood out in the mist.  
"My lord." Levi greeted the tanned man while bowing down, almost kissing the wet ground as he did.  
Xanxus didn't even look at him. "Your report." He just said.  
"Si. Firenze is calm, as dead as the water. Your name hadn't been pronounced yet, but rumors are spreading all over the region. Tomorrow, the elders are making their announcement. Your name is already on everybody's lips. After all, people hadn't forgotten your father and his great deeds in the past…" Xanxus grunted menacingly. "Hum. Huh, my apologies. The duke's body had been taken care of. No trace, no proof that can connect the assassination with you. Your alibi is this party. Everyone saw you attending it, and as bad as the attenders' reputation can be, few are those who openly dare be doubtful of their word."  
"What about that man?"  
"That man?... Oh, the maresciallo Giotto. He's behaving well. For now. We are still keeping an eye on him and his allies."  
"Good. And lastly… Byakuran."  
"Yes, Byakuran, sir?"  
"Not only Byakuran. Any other connections we still have with the marshals or the city…" Xanxus' tone was progressively getting low and terrible. "When everything is be over, by now you know what to do about them."  
"When everything is over…" Levi shivered, but didn't let the raven perceive his fear. "Yes, my lord."  
Levi stood up and walked backwards until he left the bathroom. Another knock. This last one really annoyed the only inhabitant of the bathroom.  
"Again, what?"  
"Signore Xanxus…" A domestic murmured. "I-I-I wanted to know if Signore Xanxus was over… Maybe the water is getting cold…"  
Xanxus glared at the door. "Feccia…"  
Hearing that, the servant disappeared, closing silently the door behind him.  
"Now that the hindrance is all gone…" Xanxus whispered and raised his head, closing his eyes. "Let's think about what I'm going to do with you."  
As he said this, the thought of shorter silver hair and the burning sensation on his cheek came back to his mind.

Xanxus saved his life. Squalo didn't want to say it that way, but technically that was it.  
'I jumped just like an idiot between him and Giotto.' The swordsman gulped bitterly. 'I helped a rebel, thus I became one myself. Damn, what a bloody idiot.'  
The sun was up, its rays filtering behind the old curtains of the window. The nun was back. They were both sitting in the bed, Squalo's back facing the girl. She was changing the dressing on the silverette's abdomen, once again soiled with blood. He didn't complain anymore about the bad treatment, finding in the young girl's harshness some kind of comfort and, perhaps, familiarity. The girl, instead, was complaining. Taking care of Squalo was an extra work for her and she realized she would never be paid for it, but if she unfortunately told that to her abbess, it would only get her in more trouble.  
"Thaaat's why I don't like dealing with that man (she's talking about Xanxus). A bad payer, an ungrateful brat, this is all him. Beside what happened again? Last time I saw you, your wound was in a better shape than this (finishing the dressing, she slapped the newly treated injury. Squalo flinched painfully). What happened again?"  
The silver head frowned but replied nothing. The nun sighed and got up. "What are you, really? A kid? Jesus, why am I even asking this? This has nothing to do with me…"  
"Voi…" Squalo called before the nun left. "Since when do you know that man?"  
There was a slight awkwardness in the swordsman's voice, but he however found the nerve to ask. The young girl looked at him questioningly.  
"That man, you mean Xanxus? Well, not that long. His family once helped out our nunnery, so the abbess decreed whenever he would ask for the counterpart, we would have to give it to him, whatever it might be."  
"Huuh." Squalo smirked. "A lousy deal, ain't that?"  
"Umu. Tell me about it. Why do you ask?"  
"I just… Damn. Has he… Has Xanxus ever done something like this? I mean, (his throat tightened) saving someone's life…" And in the process, he omitted to say, kidnapping and kissing said person.  
The nurse watched indifferently at him. "I told you, didn't I? Xanxus isn't the kind of man to fear for his allies' well-being. More like using them then throwing them away. I've seen a lot of people ending like this. Some had even known him for a long time, or at least, longer than me. Some had been his friends, some had been his own family. But Xanxus is this kind of man. One should never, even in great trouble, ask anything from him, neither loafing around with him … I'd like to say. But it's kind of too late for us. Anyway…" She stared in the void. She gave the impression she was searching for the right words to say. "Umu." Mammon said after a while. "This is indeed the first time I see something like this. The lord is a cunning and manipulating evil, but I can say he's never gone this far for anyone before."  
She left right after.  
Squalo didn't know how to react to that. He somehow understood the raven's personality – it wasn't that complicated to assess how someone like him worked out. The current situation was all the more inexplicable for him.  
'Why?' He fathomed. 'It would have been so easy to let me die there on the ground. This is simply absurd, purposeless, stupid…'  
The swordsman was lost in his thought when, suddenly, the door opened up. The silverette swiftly turned back to look at the newcomer, his heart racing in his chest. He gasped when he discerned the high stature of the raven. The latter glanced curiously at him.  
"What?" He asked.  
"Nothing." Squalo answered, looking back at the window so that the tanned man wouldn't set his eyes on the blush he was sure was spreading on his face. Only one night gone by after the kissing incident. He had never kissed a man. The whole situation was so…  
"Ouch!" He cried when he felt Xanxus pulling at his hair.  
"Why the hell are you so damn silent, all of a sudden?"  
The silver head glowered at him, trying to free himself. "Why do I have to explain myself, goddammit? Are you my goddamn mother?"  
Xanxus che-ed. Pulling Squalo's hair harder, he pinned him down on the mattress, one hand immobilizing the swordsman's wrists, the other clenching the smaller man's chin, forcing him to look at the man above. The long haired man could guess at his glare that the raven wasn't pleased. At all.  
"Now, you listen to me, you piece of trash." Xanxus fumed. "I am not one of the little swines you used to terrorize in your squad. I am no friend of yours. Don't even consider me like your equal."  
"Voi… Don't look down on me, voi coglione." Squalo responded with the same fierce, his fiery eyes locking with Xanxus ruby ones. "Who the heck do you think I a-"  
"Right now, you're nothing." Xanxus smirked. "You're being kept alive. You're my captive, my prisoner, my thing. Whatever I want from you, you'll give it to me, willingly or not. I can end your life at the moment and get rid of your corpse, no one will never find out. Do you understand in what kind of situation you are, now?"  
"You, hellish… I am n-" The shorter man wanted to retorted, but was cut with a deep and passionate kiss.  
The silverette struggled, tried to bite and push the raven back, in vain. The taller man only pulled back when he sensed the swordsman couldn't breathe anymore. Regrettably for him, Squalo took advantage of the respite to continue his rambling.  
"I'm not… Ah!... Your goddamn tool." He panted. "Maybe you're used having easily your way with people, but I…"  
Another kiss. This time, a little more reciprocal. Few seconds later, another break.  
"You damn… prick… I hate you…"  
The same game, again. The only difference was that Xanxus hands weren't trapping Squalo's wrists anymore. The latter was gradually getting more docile, wandering his hands in Xanxus' faintly wet hair. The tanned man finally broke the kiss. Beneath him, Squalo was breathing heavily, a trail of saliva on his chin.  
It was stunning to see him like that, Xanxus considered. It was totally different from what he had witnessed the night before. Under the sunray and all traces of drunkenness gone, the silver head seemed quite awkward on the bed. He still was angry (they both were; Xanxus for no particular reason, unlike the shark-like marshal) and didn't avert his eyes from his assailant, but unease was obvious on his features. The raven deduced it was the first time the smaller man was doing this kind of thing. He backed a little.  
"You piteous scum."  
"Let me return the compliment."  
"I'll kill you."  
"Look who's telling that."  
"…"  
They both remained impassible, Squalo still lying under the tanned man, a blush definitely tainting his cheeks. The lord was turning over and over the same thought in his mind. For once, the silver haired man didn't say anything. Seeing him like that, between daring and shyness, was almost an endearing sight for the taller man's eyes. It would have been easy to take advantage of that idiot. No one was aware of the fact he was there, no one in the mansion would care about him; for the rest of the world, Squalo was already as good as dead…  
Finally, Xanxus sat back on the bed, resigned.  
"How can you put up with that?" He demanded.  
"Voi, with what?"  
"This smell. It always reeks off of alcohol and blood. That's sickening."  
A vein twitched on the maresciallo's forehead. "Oh, once more, I'm sorry for having you shooting me in the stomach. It sure must have been a big annoyance for you to-"  
"This isn't what I meant, you stupid piece of trash. Get up."  
And like to show him the example, Xanxus got to his feet and rearranged his garments. Squalo's brain, even now disturbed by what had just happened between them, could only focus on the other man's clothes (a dark and expensive velvet leotard, trousers made in the same material, leather boots, white silken shirt and a deep red cravat, faultlessly marrying with the feathers permanently dangling at the raven's neck).  
"Stop staring at me like this, you freak."  
"V-voi! I wasn't!..."  
"Shut it and get up, I said. We're going out."  
Squalo was flabbergasted. He gawked at the raven with incredulity. It made Xanxus' scowl deepen.  
"Haaa?"  
"How many times do I have to tell you that?" He was tapping his foot with impatience. "I give you five minutes. You have five minutes to get your lazy ass out of that bed and to get it decently dressed. I'll wait for you in the backyard. Hurry up or, this time, I'll kill you for sure."  
Squalo frowned weirdly at his jailer as the latter quickly got out of the bedroom. Xanxus gone, the swordsman still was more than flabbergasted. Furious, he wanted to yell at the raven, he wanted to throw anything he had under his hands at him, he wanted to kick the life out of that presumptuous man who actually believed the world was only his. Yes, he wanted to tell him a few home truths, at the risk of getting himself killed stupidly…  
"Voi… That guy…" He muttered under his breath, eyebrows furrowing, one hand pressed against his mouth and his face a deep red and inflamed. "He did ask me out, didn't he?"  
And a little voice to say in the back of his head: 'technically, yes.'  
…  
Kyoya watched the couple leaving the castle on their mounts as he was hidden in the shadow of giant cypresses. The weather was hot, very hot for the season, and the sky was concealed by a veil of metallic clouds, but the rain wouldn't fall. It had been like this for days, and the Japanese man was astonished how anyone could get out with that weather. The old tree's scent was mind-numbing and, far away, the horizon was trembling under the sun. Hibari put down his telescope and yawned. The young man once thought about having a little nap, but then he remembered he was sitting on a horse. Annoyed, he grunted.  
He wasn't fond of his job – spying on people, how pathetic – but it couldn't be helped. It was his task since his entire unit was already requisitioned for more or less similar jobs. Hibari Kyoya wiped his pale, sweat-drenched forehead with the back of his hand.  
"Ehi, figlio! A rather harsh day, ain't it?" An old man who was passing by asked him.  
Hibari Kyoya waved a hand and smiled as amicably as he could. In order to achieve his mission, he had traded-off his usual austere military uniform for way simpler, petty bourgeois' ones. The only odd fact about him was his obvious Asiatic face – but the geezer was doubtless myopic since he hadn't showed the slightest hint of surprise.  
"A darn hot day, nonno." He replied.  
The old man laughed out loud and moved on. The grandpa slowly became a tiny black point amidst the wide yellow of the Tuscan fields. Almost at the same moment, a soft ruffling was heard behind the Japanese man. A taller one showed up, holding a small wooden jug in his hand.  
"For you." Kusakabe held the bottle to Kyoya. "You look like you're going to suffocate soon."  
Kyoya frowned imperceptibly, yet took the jar and gulped down at it.  
"Did you see where were they heading to?"  
"To the olive grove. There is no escort accompanying them. Only the rebel leader and the maresciallo."  
"Former maresciallo." Hibari corrected impassibly. "Right now, he's as good as dead." A yawn. "Lese majesty and high treason. It's a miracle he still has his head on his shoulders."  
In spite of the canicule, Kusakabe shivered. "Oh. That's a bit cruel punishment. Didn't you say Xanxus shot him in the stomach?"  
Hibari didn't answer. He preferred remain quiet not to die of dehydration. Leisurely, he put the telescope back against his eye and resumed his observation.  
Less than half a mile away, he could clearly see the details of Xanxus' hideout. No need to say that, for the few days he had been watching the house from the outside, he had been more able to make a precise conception of it than the silver haired swordsman.  
It wasn't a castle, nor was it a mere cottage. The house was huge and imposing, the yellow-brown stoned façades of it, pierced by charming wooden green-almond windows, altogether with the sunburned tiles covering the roof giving a warm and severe impression to the outsider. On the north side was an old barn which was almost half used. A garden (the same garden in which the party had been held the night before) was circling the whole place – which was already surrounded by a majestic fauna, so rare in the region: wisterias, flowers, shrubs and vine were harmoniously decorating the outside of the manor. A wide arcade of stone was marking the entrance.  
It was no use trying to sneak in. Two dozens of guards were constantly keeping their eye on every side of the manor. And they were incorruptible, as well as the villagers who used to live under the landlord's dominion for generations. Their fathers had served their lord. So had their fathers before them and their fathers' fathers… In other words, it would have been a waste of time to try to convince one of them to betray Xanxus. Hibari Kyoya had to think about another plan.  
That morning, though, had been the first time he saw the swordsman in the company of the raven. Hibari Kyoya practically licked his lips with delectation at that sight. Kyoya wasn't that cruel. He was simply a deep sadistic man.  
"Tonight, we're launching the attack." He decreed.  
Kusakabe opened his mouth wide. "Aah? Tonight? Kyoya-san, with all due respect, we simply can't."  
"And why?"  
"'Why'?... Because there are only both of us! The others won't be here in time. Because what we have there is not a fancy castle but truly a bastion! Because all we want to do is capture Xanxus, so why don't we just follow him and…"  
"You herbivore." Kyoya glared at the other male. "Did I say I wanted to capture that damn gorilla? This is Giotto's order, not mine. Back then, in the abbey, weren't they two? What a nice payback if I gave them tit for tat. I'll make sure he'll be sorry for that day he had some little fun with my men."  
A bead of sweat dropped on Kusakabe's forehead. He remembered too well the tragedy of that day and the carnage they found in the old abbey. The taller man understood perfectly his leader's desire for revenge, but what the smaller man proposed still was too reckless.  
"Kyoya-san, let me make contact with our unit. I swear on my faith I'll be back before the sunset. Don't do anything thoughtless before my coming back. I beg you, don't do it!"  
"Humph." Kyoya shrugged as he watched Kusakabe mounting his own horse and disappearing at the other side of the landscape. He then went back on his duty.  
…  
The duke was indeed dead. Firenze's Council just decreed so. Now, the wheel had started to turn, but what everyone thought to be a simple water mill would soon beget the ugliest storm our miserable actors had ever played.  
Reinforcement actually came at sunset. The town was miles away and the roads were in a piteous state. Half a day was really tight to make the round trip, yet Kusakabe made it. Giotto was following him with few men of his and, bringing up the rear, Byakuran.  
"Why is this one here?" Hibari inquired when the white haired man greeted him as the others got down from their mounts.  
Giotto was fastening his horse to one of the cypress. "He said he felt guilty for letting Xanxus go the first time." He made a smile and gestured toward Kyoya. The latter came closer. The blond whispered something in his ear, which made the Japanese man nod. Then, once over with his steed, he harangued to the soldiers, "I agree with Kyoya's decision. We can't keep on waiting endlessly. We too have to make them aware of our existence at least once." The soldiers laughed lightly. "Kyoya, how is their defense?"  
"Solid, but not impregnable. Looking for a weakness in it is pointless. We might as well force our opening right at the manor's entrance."  
"Do you know where Xanxus is?"  
Kyoya raised an eyebrow. Of course Giotto wouldn't talk about the shark. This man was just too soft. "He's inside. They just got back from their ride."  
"Perfect. So we won't have our strength divided. Now, listen." Giotto declared. "I'll go first and break their first defense. Kusakabe, Alonso, Amato and Constanzo are following me from behind. Once you see there is less resistance, you come in the manor and take care of the second defense. Kyoya, I think I don't have to tell you what you have to do." The blond added with a smile. The dark hair youth just brushed the remark away.  
"And me?" Byakuran raised his hand. "Don't tell me you've made me ride miles only to let me watch you guys."  
"Of course, not just watch. But basically, yes. You'll watch my back and assure Kusakabe's group will safely attend the manor's inside. Marino, take six or seven men with you. You'll block the north, by the forest. Taddeo, same thing, but to the east, by the plain. Paolo and Nazario are staying here with you in any case."  
You won't let me alone, you mean, Byakuran pondered. He glanced at the soldiers who were supposed to stay behind with him and beamed. "Okay."  
"Alright." Giotto got on his horse again, followed in his movement by Kusakabe and the other troopers. "I count on you all."  
He whipped the animal. They all went away in a huge cloud of dust. Left behind were Byakuran and Kyoya, the first one glaring and the second smiling emotionlessly at the glaring one.  
"It's time for me to go." Hibari Kyoya said, at last, while walking the same direction as his comrades' horses.  
"Oh, by feet?" Byakuran questioned. The dark hair man didn't answer and just threw his telescope at the white haired one before leaving silently in the violet dusk. Byakuran watched by the telescope.  
"Giotto-kun is really in a hurry." He said casually. The other soldiers didn't understand what the maresciallo was implying. He murmured for himself, "In one hell of a hurry."  
What the white haired Marshal said was purely true. As I said sooner, the duke was declared dead, that meant a successor was to be nominated soon. The Council hadn't said anything still, but a spy the blond maresciallo had in their deliberation room discovered something: there would be no deliberation. The name of the duchy's heir was already decided Xanxus Vongola, the very murderer of the former duke!  
When he heard that, Giotto's heart practically leapt in his mouth. He had to prevent that imposture, by all means. But the problem was that there was absolutely no proof the raven had actually perpetrated the crime, though he knew Xanxus had done it with his own hands. A trial was impossible, it would only turn into a farce. That's why Giotto was reduced to such extremities. Unfortunately, there are times when violence is the only way one can ensure justice.  
…  
The day hadn't been nice at all for Squalo. He should have known spending a whole day with the raven would only end up with them arguing like children for the smallest things.  
"Are you crazy?" The swordsman roared at the tanned man as they were on their way home. "You did it on purpose! I told you not to shoot yet. I was right before you, you moron!"  
"That's precisely why I shot."  
"Voi, porco cazzo! Because of that I had to jump in that shitty quagmire!"  
"You don't have to remind me that. Your smell's already doing the job."  
"Shut it!"  
This is essentially how a day of hunting with Xanxus and Squalo ends up. They were dirty, covered with mud from tip to toe. Dead leaves and grass were stuck in the silverette's hair, and the feathers hanging on the raven's neck were a messily tangled scrub…  
Well, it actually hadn't been a good day for neither of them. As they entered the manor and Xanxus was about to leave for his own apartments, Squalo called at him.  
"Voi! You're not going to leave me like that!"  
"Che. What's wrong again?" The raven inquired angrily.  
"The bathroom, you silly bastard!" The silver haired man was twitching with impatience. "Where is it?"  
Xanxus beckoned a lackey to show the way to the guests' bathroom to the silverette. "Do you want me to join you later?" He added sarcastically – or not.  
The swordsman frowned, unsure of how to take that joke – in so far as it was a joke.  
"Don't be stupid." He followed the lackey upstairs.  
The swordsman had to admit the manor was pretty impressive on the outside, but on the inside it was far more astonishing. An incredible number of luxurious rooms, an unlimited continuation of corridors, antechambers and vast halls. It was almost a shame to have his muddy shoes soiling the ground. For one second, a little voice in his head asked what the hell he was doing in such a place, just why he didn't leave it and go back to Firenze. But then, the second after, another voice raised, 'After all, why should I go back? What attach do I have in that city? I have no family, no lover… There is absolutely no reason why I should go back.' His marshal's duty? To hell. The people he used to call his "co-worker" were surely scheming to have his head off at the moment. Another reason why he shouldn't go back.  
But here, there was Xanxus and the promise of another confrontation.  
"Signore, here you are." The lackey said after they arrived in front of the bathroom.  
"Ah."  
The valet bowed and left. A sigh of relief, and the silverette opened the door and came in.  
Apart from the disastrous hunt, the rest of the day went by quite tranquilly. The sun was setting. Far away, the sound of the Angelus could be heard altogether with the sharp cry of the crows and the jingling of the sheep herd's bell. They had all became usual sounds for Squalo. He liked sitting on the bed and listening to them quietly. Only listening, peaceful and calm, while watching at the country landscape. His childhood, he had spent it entirely in Firenze running after other kids in the crowded and grubby streets of the old district. He wasn't used to the serenity and the peace of mind of the countryside. It was agreeable, of course, but in the same time, somehow annoying.  
After the bath, his wet hair was sticking on his neck and his clothes – taken from Xanxus' wardrobe, with the courtesy of Xanxus – were way too big for him, but the perspective of walking naked didn't amuse him neither. Just like the night before, only little earlier, domestics installed a table for two near the window. The raven arrived one hour later, then the same servants started to serve the dinner. That night, it was crostini toscani, lardo di colonnata, wild boar pappardelle and castagnaccio. The swordsman watched with shock the raven gulping down half of his meal in less than five minutes when he was still sipping at his glass of wine.  
"Voooi…"  
"What?"  
It was more a way to tell him to shut up than actually a question. Squalo sensed it and continued his sipping. "No, nothing."  
"You're annoying, you shitty shark. What's wrong again?"  
"I was only thinking: no need to kill that guy, soon he's going to choke to death with his own food."  
Xanxus smirked but didn't stop his eating. "Ha! Ya'd like that, huh?"  
"I was just stating the obvious."  
"Shut up and you too, eat. It's a pain to grope that skeletal body of yours. At least grow some flesh to the ass."  
"Voi, you didn't seem to have any problem with that yesterday, when you tried to rape me."  
"Yesterday, I put up with it in spite of your flat ass. Sfumatura." He gulped down. "And don't make me laugh about that rape thing, you stupid. You were enjoying yourself like a fucking whore in a brothel."  
"Bastard!" Squalo hissed and, violently putting his glass back on the table, he stood up. "Should I show you how to keep your damn mouth close?"  
"You are telling me to keep my damn mouth close?" Xanxus stood up and looked fiercely at the silverette. "Ha! You pretty lousy shit. I'll teach you how to make your pretty mouth useful."  
"You… Get down!"  
At the speed of light, Squalo pounced on the raven, making him fall from his seat and sprawl on the floor. Xanxus groaned angrily as his head hit the hard material.  
"You low-life scumbag, you'll pay for this!" He roared.  
The silver head scowled. "Shut up and listen."  
In the garden, the taller man could hear hue and cries, gunshots and swords clashing.  
"What the hell…"  
"They found you." Squalo cut him and pointed at the opposite wall. "And looks like they don't want to take any prisoner."  
As the raven followed the direction he was showing, he spotted a small, almost invisible hole left by a bullet, exactly at the level where Xanxus' head had been. He che-ed, then reported his attention to the silver haired man who was still straddling him. His white linen shirt, too big for the swordsman, was hovering over his slender body, sensually revealing the porcelain skin of his shoulder.  
At that moment, another gunshot resounded. Something hit the windowpane, breaking it. Xanxus took that opportunity to pull the silverette closer so that they were practically chest to chest, the latter's face inches away from his. Squalo's wet hair was falling around them in a silver mess.  
"Xanxus, voi…" Squalo frowned. "It isn't time for something like this."  
"'Something like this'?" Xanxus drew nearer and started licking and biting at Squalo's collarbone. It smelled and tasted good. The silverette writhed and leaned against the tanned man's torso. Outside, the tumult was moving closer and closer to them. The guards inside the manor were already upside down. "What do you mean?"  
"Damn you, Xanxus…" The swordsman was more moaning than scolding him. "They're getting close. We can't keep on fooling around here… Aan…"  
For once, Xanxus had to agree. Anyway, those trashes wouldn't have let him enjoy himself to his heart's content. He stared long at Squalo, plunging his eyes into the two greyish ponds. With no warning, he punched at Squalo's stomach, accurately at where the swordsman had been shot. The latter winced painfully and twisted in agony. It had been only one week after the operation; needless to say the wound was still painful. Furious, he got up and harshly pulled at Squalo's wrist, leading him outside the bedroom.  
"Wait, Xanxus, what are you up to?" Squalo asked as they crossed corridors in which he had never wandered before. It was a miracle the uproar hadn't reach this part of the house yet – maybe were the assailants too busied searching in the other rooms. Seeing that the raven wouldn't reply, Squalo was slowly getting angry. "Voi, are you listening to me? Where the heck are we go-"  
A slap on his cheek. It made Squalo silence, and go even angrier. He was about to kick the raven back, but before he could do anything, the latter had him pinned on the wall, one hand securely fastening both of his wrists.  
"You really can't shut up, can you." Xanxus spoke unquestionably. "Squalo," Said man's body shivered unconsciously as the raven uttered his name. "Never forget it. You're my captive, my tool. But for now, you can be of no use for me, and I don't want to see you fucking die after all the shits I had to undergo to keep you bloody idiot alive."  
"I don't care-"  
"Shut. Up. Follow me."  
Xanxus pushed a door open and shoved the swordsman outside the manor.  
He wouldn't be able to fight, but riding, Xanxus was sure he could.  
…  
They were riding in the night. Their horses were breathing heavily, their hooves almost didn't touch the dusty ground as they were running wild in the plain. Squalo could hear the sound of other horsemen behind them, riding after them. At his side, Xanxus was placid. Their mounts would easily distance their pursuers', the raven had absolutely no doubt about it, and so was the swordsman. Upon their heads, the moon was shining bright. Unlike the raven's dark cloak and heavy overcoat, his clothes weren't made for a nocturne ride and the unexpected cold wind was hitting hard on his skin. It was arousing Squalo's wildest side, it made him want to laugh out loud and say farewell to the civilized world, living only by the raven's side, fighting with him, by his side…  
The sound of a bullet hissing at his ear brought him back from his reveries.  
"Voooi. They're fucking shooting on sight." Squalo yelled at Xanxus. "Do you know what that means? It's a dead or alive matter."  
No answer from the raven. To the silverette's surprise, he slowed his pace and stopped. Squalo could only stop his steed few meters further. 'What in the world is he doing?' He went back.  
"Voi…"  
"I didn't tell you to stop." Xanxus fumed.  
"Are you planning on staying behind? What a wonderful gentleman you can be." Squalo sneered but almost instantly his expression darkened. "Stop kidding me, you bastard. If you're doing this for me…"  
The tanned man's ruby orbs were glowering at the former maresciallo. "I'm not doing this for you, scum. Don't think you're that special of a person to deserve it. Those exasperating little coglione like to play with fire. It's going to burn their hands… Why are you still here?" He said after some time. "Get the fuck away. If you stay here, you'll only be a burden."  
Squalo bit angrily at his lower lip. The remark had been bitter. He pulled slightly at the bridle of his horse, ready to leave when suddenly he felt Xanxus' gloved hand on his cheek (the one he had slapped few time before), forcing him to face the raven. The latter kissed him avidly before releasing him again.  
"Trash, this is a farewell." He said while caressing at the silverette's cheek after they broke their embrace. Xanxus then pulled the bridle of his horse so that they were facing Firenze's soldiers.  
No word could get out from Squalo's mouth. It was as if he had a lump in his throat, or as if his brain couldn't process any thought at the moment. All he could do was flogging his horse to run away as fast as the animal could, to the opposite direction. The last sight he had had of the raven was that damn smirk on his lips and the guns appearing from under his cloak.

They galloped like this, with Squalo not daring to look behind, where Xanxus was. Yet his back was burning. He felt he had done something wrong. However, the solitary ride lasted barely ten minutes. Someone was already following the swordsman. They were about ten and armed; he was alone, wounded and defenseless. Much to his shame, the long haired man had to escape. He spurred his horse to run faster.  
This part of the region was totally unknown to him. He didn't even know where he was heading to, or if he still was in Tuscany. But his horse was getting tired and the wound was gradually growing painful.  
Squalo had overestimated himself. He had to part with the horse: even if he succeeded in shaking his pursuers off, the animal's trace still were obvious on the dusty road. The problem was that there was only a desert miles around, so Squalo had no choice but abuse of his mount a little longer. Fortunately, the poor beast held on until they reached an area covered with thicket. The silverette left the horse under a small tree and continued his route alone.  
Now, the reader shouldn't forget Superbi Squalo had assumed the role of Marshal of Firenze, and also something you didn't know yet, he had done this from his teenage years. He hadn't become Marshal because of an exaggerated fidelity to Firenze – you should have understood this so far. It was only because the swordsman had always been a dangerous kid, one particularly prone to grow into a dangerous man, a real bother for the city. Someone one better has with them rather than against them.  
Surviving was nothing for Squalo. Being lost in the middle of the desert plains of Tuscany, with no carriage, no water, no food and an army behind him, was nothing for him. He just had to sink even more in the bush, delete his traces, deceiving his pursuers with a false track. He had seen those low-level Florentine soldiers, he had trained them, he knew their flaws – and they had many. He was prepared for everything, but for this: a tap on his shoulder from behind him, nearly making him have an attack. He swiftly turned back to see Byakuran's grinning face.  
"What the-?" Squalo was on the point of screaming but the white haired man pressed a hand against the swordsman's mouth to keep him quiet.  
"I came here to save you… Did you want to hear me say that?" Byakuran burst in laugh then said out loud whilst clapping at his hands, "It's okay, everyone. I got him. Don't shoot."  
All of the sudden, a ruffling sound around the silverette: soldiers got out from the bush, totally surrounding him. Squalo huffed. "You played well, voi testa di cazzo."  
"Ah, why always curses, I wonder…" The white haired man shook his head sorrowfully. He came closer to the swordsman then he whispered quietly to him, so quietly no one but Squalo could hear him, "Be thankful I found you before Giotto's friend. Otherwise, you'd be in big troubles right now. Sirs," he said louder, "the shackles."  
…  
Squalo was back in San Lorenzo for his trial. Before that, he had spent an entire night in the Burella; no need to say it had been one of the worst days of his short life. After the last week spent sleeping in that luxurious bedroom of Xanxus' manor, the oh so comfortable bed and the wonderful sight he got of the outside, anything could have been considered disappointing and second-rate, but the cold and humid underground jail – which had never seen any sunray since the construction completion – the underground jail was by far more disheartening. The day after, the fallen maresciallo was almost happy to welcome the heavy stare and livid faces of the other marshals in their – warm – usual meeting place. Squalo rubbed his reddened wrists with his free hands (no need for manacles, with all the marshals in the room), then quickly scanned the vast room.  
The only change was that instead of facing each other, the marescialli were sitting in a semicircle, all watching intently at the defendant, who was glaring back at them with derision. Dino Cavallone, him too standing at the corner of the room, was frowning with nervousness, as if he didn't know yet on which side he should be.  
Hibari Kyoya was absent. A rumor was circulating about him being severely wounded, but no one would tell more. Adelheid and Kouyou, either, weren't there. However, apart from Dino and Giotto, none of the present Marshals were giving the impression of actually being interested in the hearing. Since the final answer was already known by everyone, what's the purpose of a trial? What they really wanted to hear was the outcome of it. That was all.  
Unsurprisingly, Giotto was presiding the trial.  
"Superbi Squalo." He stated gravely. "Until now you've been employed by the city of Firenze as one of its best and powerful marshal, and this for almost eight years."  
"That's right." Squalo replied.  
"But in reality, you were also part of a rebel group lead by the dissident Xanxus Vongola."  
"Absurd. I barely know that man."  
"You barely know him, you say…" The blond marshal frowned. "Even if you clearly took party against me, defending him during the raid we made two weeks ago?"  
"Giotto!" Dino cut. "This can't be possible! Many witness said he got shot by Xanxus right after. Squalo couldn't have been helping that man, or be a friend of his."  
"A screen of smoke." A woman named Lal Mirch said indifferently.  
"Yes, this is pure speculation, marshal Giotto." A man with messy dark hair and glasses yawned. "If you want to be more convincing, you'd better bring proves."  
"And tell me," Giotto's voice raised. "Which proof could be better than the fact the accused Squalo had spent the last days hidden in Xanxus' retreat?"  
"Is that so?" Zakuro smirked, the swordsman glaring at him fiercely. "Well, that's pretty bad for you, huh, Squalo? And when you were there, how many times did that Xanxus guy do you?"  
"Vooi. Shut the fuck up, trash!" Squalo yelled, way angrier than how he wanted to be.  
Verde sighed, Lal huffed and Byakuran just laughed out loud.  
"It's only a question of gratitude." The red haired marshal resumed. "Or were you the one who-"  
"Stop that right now, will you?" Dino said furiously. "We're not talking about this kind of thing… Giotto. This trial is meaningless. What's the point of fighting against each other when the rebels are waiting for us right before our doors?"  
"That's right, Giotto." The silverette grinned. "By the way, I can't see your friend, that Hibari Kyoya. Is he still doing well?"  
Giotto tensed. "Don't forget why you're here."  
"I don't."  
Irony was obvious in the silver haired man's voice, but Giotto decided to ignore it. "You do not have anything say in your defense?"  
"Defend myself? I don't think it would be very useful at the moment. Am I not guilty yet?"  
"Squalo!" Dino Cavallone was almost crying. "Listen, Giotto. Give us some time to investigate further more. We can't sentence him to death if we don't know all the details of that story, can we? If only for his years of loyal in Firenze. I refuse condemning a man to death only upon suspicions!"  
"Those aren't mere suspicions!" Giotto finally burst. His face, habitually so kind and sympathetic, was suddenly deformed by hatred and hurt. "Don't you think I also don't want to believe he's guilty? But the fact he protect the rebel leader and the fact said rebel leader shelter him for so many days are more than enough to prove his guiltiness." He got up. "Treason and complicity of rebellion. This is death penalty."  
It was the judgment of a marshal by a marshal, and, as I said before, the verdict was more or less known.  
"Only in the case there are solid proves against the defendant, marshal." Byakuran said. "And until now, you've presented none. The fact Squalo had been abducted and sequestered for almost two weeks can't reasonably prove anything."  
"That's not wrong." Verde smiled to the other marescialli. "What about investigating a little more? It would hurt no one, you know. And also, Giotto, you know already you can't get someone killed by the end of this week."  
Finally, the blond marshal calmed down.  
"Yes. You're right. So it leaved me no choice but send him back in the Burella until Monday..."  
"Wait, that's insane." Dino raised a hand. "I saw what that jail looks like, and I also saw Squalo's wound. (The silverette raised an eyebrow) If you let him there for that long, it may get infected and worsen… And you don't want to have a cadaver to judge, do you, Giotto?"  
"What?" Zakuro frowned. "So you want us to let him go back freely at his home, as if nothing happened?"  
"I want you to show some humanity. It's not as though Squalo was already guilted or anything…"  
"Enough is enough." Giotto, tired, declared. "Defendant Superbi Squalo, your trial is adjourned for Monday next week. Until then, you'll be confined in your home."  
"What a rare display of courteousness." Squalo sneered.  
"Don't make your case worse, Squalo." Giotto warned. "Guards…"  
Immediately, two wardens put the shackles back on the silverette. Everyone in the room got up as the guards lead him to the exit. They were all silent, all eager to go back to their daily activities. In the end, they only considered the trial as a little setback they had to get rid as quickly as they could. As Giotto ordered, Squalo was sent to his house where a squad would be constantly surveying him. The swordsman, worn-out by everything he had been through since the previous day, agreed coldly.  
It seemed it took hours to reach Squalo's house. When he arrived, he let himself fall heavily on the mattress of his bed.  
"One prison after another, huh?" Squalo sighed. Where did Xanxus go? What happened after they got separated? Was he the one who fought against and wounded Hibari? All those questions were left with no convincing answer.  
He feared for the raven's life. Yes, he feared. He was perfectly aware of that feeling. If something happened to him, anything… What the silverette was sure about was that if the marshals had caught him, he would have heard about it. But Xanxus was the one to beat. For someone like him, it was more plausible he had been assassinated discretely, under the lee of people's eyes. The swordsman himself had killed many this way. If no one was talking about it, then, is it possible that…  
"Aaah! Damn you, Xanxus! It's all your fault!" He got up and ruffled his hair. When did he become that weak? Since when did he pay attention to anything else, anyone else but him and his sword? Meeting Xanxus had changed him, he couldn't deny that fact. Yet he wasn't sure he liked this side of himself. Those idle thoughts were whirling in his mind as his grey eyes were locked fixedly on the ceiling.  
Superbi Squalo, the undefeated Superbi Squalo who had taken down the best fencers of the continent, maybe of the world, a man his own enemies had qualified a demon sword master with godlike skills that would have crushed down one army or two… Only because of one man, Superbi Squalo was hesitating.  
He was lost in his thought when noises raised from outside the bedroom. "Let me in, I say." Someone said behind the door. "Don't be afraid. Nor Giotto, nor anyone else will know. I assure you. Alright, alright. I'll let the door open…"  
The door burst open. Squalo wasn't even surprised to see the debonair white hair marshal invading his room. Once more he lay down, only welcoming Byakuran with a wave of his hand.  
"Yo, Byakuran."  
"Oh, it's been long since the last time you greeted me normally."  
"What are you here for?" Squalo grunted.  
"Mmh. It didn't last long, did it. Too bad, when I'm here to show you something that might catch your eye of expert…"  
The swordsman raised his head a little. That's when he saw in the other man's hand his old spatha, perfectly neat and shining. "Voi, where did you find my sword? I thought I've lost it!"  
Squalo got up and crossed the room to take the sword from Byakuran. However the latter didn't let him do so. "Not so fast. Don't forget I'm not your only guest."  
That was right. Soldiers were waiting in front of the door, watching every detail of the conversation. Byakuran laughed softly. "Did you really believe I'd give this to you? A weapon? That would be too much irresponsible of me."  
"So what you're trying to say with all that fuss is that you have my sword and you'll keep it for yourself."  
"Pin-pon."  
A vein swelled on the swordsman's forehead. Squalo folded his arms and started stomping rapidly. "Okay, you did well. Now get lost."  
The other maresciallo heaved a sigh. "I have no choice, then. Since you don't want to see me this much, I'll take a leave." He came closer to the swordsman and began ruffling wildly at the silver hair. He didn't stop until it was a total mess, and until Squalo was about to punch him in the face.  
"Bye bye." Byakuran smiled at him from the door.  
"Get out and never come back!" The silverette yelled furiously and shut the door close. He could hear the clink of the soldier's arms as they were accompanying the white head to his coach. Good riddance. His feet automatically led him to his desk on which a hairbrush was lying with a multitude of other unused stuffs for his hair. The hairbrush made its way to the silver mane, carefully disentangling it with every passage. Soon, the brushing was over and Squalo watched, contented, at his reflection in the mirror. He was about to go back to his pacing up and down when he suddenly found a little ball of paper on the ground, so small he would have never noticed it if he didn't have anything else to do.  
Squalo picked the ball up and opened it. A message was written on the minuscule sheet: "Tonight, Idreno is going to sing for his lovely princess. You won't miss it, will you?"  
Squalo twitched and threw the paper away. 'A hellish opera? What in the world am I going do with…' But then he paused. His features darkened noticeably. 'Wait… Idreno… a princess… Tonight…' The silverette picked the paper up and ran to his window.  
The swordsman was occupying a cozy apartment in three-storey building on Via del Giglio. His bedroom was on the second floor so he could get an acceptable view of the environs. It was mid afternoon and the sun was beating hard on Firenze and half blinded the swordsman as he hastily opened the curtain of the window. It truly wasn't a normal weather for the season, though it didn't contrary people at all as they were all going about their own business.  
Squalo cast a rapid glance over the town. He could clearly see the Duomo standing proudly under the blue sky. Around it were spreading an incalculable amount of houses and smaller churches, each one of their bell towers trying to defy the neighbor's.  
Squalo tsk-ed. "No, I can't see it." He looked down on the street. "But I can see you."  
He was talking about the bunch of soldiers guarding the entrance of the house. They hadn't left the place since the second Squalo came in, and it was slowly attracting the neighborhood's attention. Old women even came to them – of course with basket full of provisions – to ask what they were doing there. The chaps just took the food and chased the curious away.  
"At least I know I can't bride them with food." He whispered. His attention turned to look at the wooden ceiling, right above the bed. Squalo smirked. "It's always good to have stupid people around you."  
The silverette got on the mattress then, raising his hands to the ceiling, he applied a very light pressure on the planks. A trapdoor opened, leading directly to the attic of the house. It would have been totally silly from anyone to believe the swordsman hadn't prepared an exit from his own bedroom, that he didn't have any backup plan for those kinds of situation. It's not that the perspective of being trapped in his house always haunted him, it was only a matter of common sense for the shark-like marshal. With no hesitation, the swordsman rushed into the darkness then closed the trapdoor behind him.  
The attic was dark and narrow. Someone bigger than Squalo would have stayed stuck between the frame and the ground. The swordsman started to creep in the darkness. Each one of his movement were tearing a whine of discontentment from the ceiling. Squalo had to move as slowly as he could not to warn the soldiers standing guard in front of his room. It took him almost ten minutes to reach the end of the attic, and with the heat outside, said attic was almost a furnace.  
Squalo began groping around the wall he knew was before him. His hands finally found a latch the silverette opened not without difficulty, in the same time opening a skylight overlooking an alleyway at the back of the house which, unlike the front, was free of soldiers and watchdogs.  
Now it was high time for Squalo to play the tightrope walker… or more precisely, the rooftop walker.

When the night came, the heat was reduced a little. Women could walk in the streets without being forced to wave gigantic fans near their faces, children could be persuaded to get out of the river and wear decent clothes, and, at long last, men allowed themselves to heat their bodies with their own willpower – mostly with wine and courtesans. But some of them, like those you can see in that wide street of Ricasoli (back then, the Cocomero), were up for more fashionable pastime.  
Opera.  
People would put their more sumptuous attires, the finest jewels and the most complicated hairstyle to watch (and to be seen watching) the despair of Scipio in Carthage, to listen to the Silence and Love of Jacopo Melani, or the mischievousness of Mephistopheles. Anyway, this isn't what we're interested in.  
Another representation was about to begin in the newly named teatro Niccolini. A compact crowd was waiting at the entrance of the building. As soon as the door opened, they burst inside, the less wealthy immediately filling the parterre while the others made the effort of paying a little much to have the privilege to climb a tiled staircase to reach the upper circles.  
The play commenced. It was a tragedy and the heroin wouldn't stop crying for the man she loved, first pushing them back, him and all of his proves of love, to wool over the poor guy's eyes, and after this almost dying of depression as said guy chose to marry another woman. It was a boring and wearisome story, something which clearly couldn't satisfy the public in the parterre (they were chatting and eating noisily while the heroin was wailing like a banshee).  
The boredom was gradually reaching the circles. People were yawning, some were practically sleeping mouth wide open. The spectacle was a pure failure.  
"And I paid for this." An old man with a monocle huffed furiously. Next to him, a lady about his age and wearing a thin fur coat and pearl necklaces completely hiding her wrinkled throat, sulked.  
"Why are you angry?" She inquired. "I think it's a wonderful play."  
"And for who?" The man gawked. "Tell me for who is it a wonderful play? No one but the actors themselves is listening to them! Argh! I should have stayed home or go drink with Aldo and Benigno and-"  
"I don't want to hear those animals' names! And I don't want them to come to my house anymore!"  
"Tesoro mio, that's absurd!" The man's voice softened. "They've been friends of mine for a long time now, you've always known them, even since we were young…"  
"No more!"  
The old man took offence. "You stupid bird brain, why should I ask you? It's my house, too! And I'll bring my friends there whenever I want!"  
"You dare!"  
"Yes!"  
The fight continued all along the second act. Bizarrely, people were more interested in what the old couple was yelling about rather than the play on the scene.  
The other men sitting in the same box as them were encouraging the old man, while the other women just cast them icy glances. At last, as the fight was going on, all the parties, in other words almost everyone in the box and outside the box – and they were many, those who heard the couple fight – almost everyone got up in the heat of the moment. Well, almost, not exactly everyone. In the corner of the box, there was sleeping a young man with short dark hair you'll remember as being Xanxus' fellow traveller. The ruckus of the argument hadn't woken him up, and the soprano voice of the actress seemed to make him sink deeper in his sleep.  
The second act finally came to an end. The public, though half asleep, applauded the actors in unison. The curtain fell down on the scene then the orchestra started to play a soft interlude to entertain the spectators until the beginning of the third act.  
Finally, exasperated by the never ending quarrel of the couple, the theater manager appeared to calm them down. The old woman scratched the manager's face, because of that the latter slapped her face, and because of that the old husband punched the manager in his face. The fight continued outside the theater. It wouldn't be wrong to say that half of the spectators actually left the show by the end of the interlude to watch the fight of the old man and the theater manager out in the Cocomaro.  
In the box, there was no one left but Yamamoto Takeshi and another man with incredibly long silver hair. The second man came in as the others were leaving, in the middle of the hubbub, so no one actually noticed him. The silverette – though there were many empty seats – went to sit down next to Yamamoto. The interlude was over and the third act was announced by a light allegro.  
"So this shit isn't over yet…" The silver haired man sighed somberly then turned to look at the sleeping man who was slowly starting to snore: "Voi, if you're not watching this anymore, at least you should have the decency of leaving like everyone else."  
The sleeper grunted in his slumber. It made the silverette angrier. The latter kicked Takeshi's legs. "Voooi! Listen to what I say, you dumb brat!"  
It had the merit of waking Yamamoto up. He rubbed at his eyes. "Ah? Is it over yet?"  
"Che." The silverette scowled. "For a jail bird, you're quite relaxed, sleeping nonchalantly in a public place…"  
Yamamoto was barely awaken but he somewhat understood what the other man was talking about. "Ah ah!" He laughed and scratched the back of his head. "I'm not such a criminal, you know… Or at least I know I'm not a man wanted dead or alive."  
Now Yamamoto was well awaken. He rapidly scanned his interlocutor and held out his hand to Squalo for him to shake. The latter did nothing, though. "You're Superbi Squalo, aren't you? I heard you were someone quite special for our leader… (Squalo contracted at the word 'special') I think you know everything about me, but I really want to introduce myself correctly. My name is Yamamoto Takeshi, one of Xanxus' allies."  
"I know that already." The former marshal didn't take his eyes off the story displaying on the scene. "That's precisely why I came in this box in the first place."  
"So I guess you got Byakuran's message."  
Superbi Squalo crossed his legs nervously and recited. "'Idreno is going to sing for her lovely princess.'… I'm not calling this shit a damn message. Only a boring puzzle."  
"Idreno?" Yamamoto raised an eyebrow. "Who is Idreno? There's no one called Idreno in this play…"  
For the first time since they met, Squalo looked at him with no apparent anger. "You've never attended to the Semiramide? I thought you noblemen kind of liked it."  
"Er… You know, I think this opera is quite old. I was told it only had one representation in all – the first one. And if I remember well, the name of the main singer was…"  
"Nicolini Grimaldi"  
The dark haired man's eyes widened. "Oooh! I see now!"  
Squalo shrugged indifferently. "Well, for the name, it was just a coincidence I knew the opera."  
"But I'm impressed" Yamamoto smiled kindly, "that you even remember the name of the singer."  
"Oh, this…" Squalo's grey orbs were following each one of the actors' movements. He seemed lost in his thoughts. "That's because when I was younger, I saw a private representation of it. I don't even recall exactly where or when. But I can remember it had been a very funny day."  
The swordsman's lips outlined a soft smile. Below, the heroin was singing a very pathetic song for her lover. The song was strangely matching the air on Squalo's face. Yamamoto couldn't help but think about what the silver haired man said. A private representation of Semiramide? He had already attended some, all at wealthy families' houses. But he had never heard of that… But again, he didn't know much about operas. All he could say was that memory was dear to the silverette, if it was able to make him smile that way.  
"But you," Squalo suddenly turned back at him. "That idiot Byakuran also told you to come here?"  
"Yes… '9 p.m. Niccolini.' He only told me that…Ah ah!" Yamamoto chuckled again, this time with a sorry expression. "I'm not very good at riddles, you see."  
"… So, why did that idiot asked you to come here?"  
"Ah, I almost forgot!" Yamamoto started then looked for something under his seat. It was a sword sheathed in a scabbard of leather. The same spatha Byakuran showed hours earlier. "He told me this is yours."  
Squalo nearly pry the sword out of Yamamoto's hands, before weighing it happily in his. No matter what ones can say, a swordsman is always happy to see again a precious sword of his. "I'm glad this makes you happy." The younger man beamed, but right after he heaved a sigh, his young features darkening a little. "But it isn't all."  
To Squalo' amazement, Yamamoto swiftly seized his hand in his, leaving in a key.  
"What the hell?"  
"That's the key opening his cell's door."  
Squalo sprang up, his hand holding the piece of goldsmith tight and his eyes glaring at Yamamoto.  
"What does it mean…"  
"Sit down please, otherwise someone will suspect something." Yamamoto sighed again, his face grave and serious.  
"Wait." Squalo's voice was imperceptibly shaking with emotions. "You said a cell… You mean Xanxus is locked somewhere, imprisoned but alive?"  
Yamamoto nodded and smiled, but the smile disappeared as rapidly as it came. "He is, but not for long. Xanxus will have no trial since no proof could have been counted against him. They'll have him killed in the prison cell soon." Yamamoto paused a little before continuing. "We (I mean, our allies and me) can do absolutely nothing. All of us. My friends have been whether arrested, whether killed, whether put under strict watch. Those who are alive are too busy saving themselves and their families to do anything else. I'm in the same case as them. Right now I don't have the slightest idea of where my best friend is… You may think this has nothing to do with you, still I wanted you to be aware of the entire situation. I didn't want to keep anything unknown to you. That's why, Squalo, you have to help him before it's too late!"  
The swordsman was shuddering violently. It was as if his body was suddenly taken with fever. "Damn you, scum! Why didn't you begin with that in the first place instead of making me losing my time with your stupid blabbering! Where is he?"  
The silverette was yelling, but he didn't care anymore to attract people's attention on him. Yamamoto got up and murmured something in the swordsman's ear. The young man was barely over when Squalo strode to the exit and vanished in the opera's corridor, the silver of his hair blending with the dimness.  
…  
Xanxus could here footsteps echoing in the long corridor. For the last 24 hours he had spent in jail, that's all he could hear. From time to time, a short conversation or a chuckle, nothing more. On the other hand, the calm didn't bother him that much. In many years, he had barely spent few hours all alone, so he was glad for once brainless underlings weren't asking for his instructions, and annoying flatters weren't swirling around him like flies attracted by garbage left under the sun.  
But it's true to say that his current jail in the Palazzo Vecchio was also helping a lot. Basically it was a very common cell, but specially refurbished in order to give a decent shelter for the raven: there were oriental rug and fine furniture, from a comfy bed covered with damask to a writing desk made in a first class "ebenisterie" woods… No matter what, there is absolutely nothing money can't buy.  
The tanned man was sitting comfortably in a velvet armchair, his eyes closed, his ears alert. Apart from the footsteps and the very rare crackling of the lit up candles, no sound was disturbing the raven. He was thankful for the calm. The last fight he had had been pretty deafening and annoying. That Japanese kid, Xanxus recalled, that Hibari Kyoya had been a little tougher than what he primarily thought. Though it didn't change the end of the battle. It had been more or less a one-sided fight; still the kid had had enough guts to put the rebels' leader check – at the price of countless injuries.  
As the memory of that battle was little by little flowing in Xanxus' mind, so was anger. "A damn brat like him defeating me? What a joke."  
No, Xanxus didn't consider it a defeat, rather like a strategic withdrawal. Now, all he had to do was to come up with said strategy. It made the dark haired man a little more irritated, so Xanxus just settle with going to sleep. At least, it wouldn't hurt him.  
That was when the footsteps grew louder and louder until someone actually knocked on the door. The raven didn't reply; he knew already what it was about: meal.  
Who could be stupid enough to eat the prison's food? Instead of dying from poisoning or having the smallest indigestion, he'd better starve to death. However it was not like people would let him do so easily. The name of Xanxus' house still had some influence in Firenze. Some faction of the people had never betrayed their ancient values, so did the jail guardian. The faithful man would exchange the meals the dungeon's handmaidens had prepared for the prisoner with meals he brought from his house, the man boasted about to the raven. The latter welcomed that help with a grimace. The 'safe' food looked worse than the supposed poisoned one. Xanxus just threw the burning meal to the poor guardian's face. Yet, the warden didn't give up. He got more decent – and more expensive – meals for his lord. At the third try, the fare seemed to satisfy the raven.  
It was the usual hour at which Xanxus' dinner was supposed to be served, and the jail guardian was indeed outside, waiting for Xanxus to answer. But this time, the jailor wasn't alone. A jingle rang from the door: someone was opening it. Xanxus raised an eyebrow. It was a strange thing since, habitually, no one opened it. If they wanted to see or feed the prisoner, they would only open a small aperture at eye level.  
The door opened. Much to Xanxus' surprise, it wasn't the ugly and rough face of a peasant that appeared at the embrasure, but well and truly a gracious face framed by ridiculously long silver hair. A millisecond, Xanxus' heart stopped, only to race faster, thumping with a renewed ire. He literally darted from his seat, walked rapidly to the silverette, he then violently shut the door close before pulling hard at the silvery mane, making Squalo cry and drop the key on the ground.  
"What are you doing here? Answer me!" He thundered. The swordsman was trying to escape from the raven's vice-like grip, unsuccessfully. Outside, the warden's footsteps were quickly fading in the corridor.  
"Let go of me, Xanxus!" Squalo struggled. "It fucking hurts, let go-"  
"Or do you really want to die that much? Huh? I said you are no use for me. I'll kill you, scum."  
"Get lost, bastard! I came here because you were…"  
The raven pulled harder, almost tearing the hair from Squalo's skull. "Because I'm what? Were you afraid for me? Don't make me laugh, you shitty scumbag."  
"Xanxus… The key… Use it and just get the fuck out!"  
Xanxus released Squalo's hair and instead punched the wall behind him. He couldn't believe it! All of this was only for that? To free him? As if he needed the shark's help. As if he needed that man at all. That idiot jumped in the lion's mouth, for nothing!  
"You bloody idiot." Xanxus hissed. "Tell me why you came here."  
Squalo bore the deadly glare with an unexpected patience. "I don't like owning services to people. You know it already. I'm only paying you back for Giotto's case and that's all. You won't see me anymore, I swear."  
The raven's expression darkened. "A payback? What are you talking about?" He spat after few seconds, bitterness obvious in his voice. Squalo averted his eyes.  
"Tch. Do you think I'm that slow?" He muttered, then louder: "Oh, forget it! Just take the key and get away."  
"Trash. I'm not receiving any order from you."  
"Aaah? I have to beg you to save your sorry ass?"  
"Why not? Go down on your knees and beg."  
"Vaffanculo!"  
Xanxus sneered then threw the silverette on the bed. "You said a payback, didn't you?" He went to straddle Squalo, who was only looking heinously at him. "So why don't we talk about the one week of free treatment? The free lunches? And most importantly…" His tongue went licking voraciously at Squalo's cheek, "what about my ruined meal, last night? How are you going to make up for all this?"  
Squalo remained quiet while Xanxus was frantically placing hungry kisses on the shark's neck. Only soft whimpering was coming from his mouth as his cheeks were progressively growing a faint shade of pink.  
'Humph. Cheap compensation.' He thought. However, the tanned didn't sense any rejection from him, so he kept on going down, slowly going down on the swan-like throat. His fingers then started unbuttoning the long haired man's clothes. He grunted as he felt he had some trouble doing so.  
"Hey, what's with this attire?" He inquired, frustrated, only now noticing the swordsman's unusual clothes.  
"This?... It's only what I wore to go to the theater."  
Xanxus raised an eyebrow. "What the hell were you doing in a theater? Improving your vocabulary?"  
A wrinkle appeared between Squalo's eyebrows. Xanxus was sure it would stay there forever. "Byakuran… He's a friend of yours, isn't he? It's not the first time he's helping you, I can tell it. He told me to go at the theater, then…"  
"You fool, do you often follow weird people to weird places? Slut."  
At last, the raven ripped Squalo's clothes and threw them away before crushing his lips on the silverette's. "It's all your fault!" Squalo gasped when they broke their embrace.  
Still he didn't really believe in what he said. It was his fault for being weak, for letting the raven doing what he liked with him and making fun of him, for unconsciously seeking for his company and his touch. It was his fault for having no regret letting things go that way, even he knew perfectly that was an absurd bond that was tying him to Xanxus. He was the only one to blame.  
And while his mouth kept repeating the same deceitful words, Squalo let the tanned man ravish him body and soul, not releasing him until there was nothing left anymore of the silverette but a muddle of silken hair and messed up emotions lying bare on a prison bed.  
…  
There's an old religious ritual that you can file as a tradition in Firenze. In point of fact, the tradition was, with no exaggeration, as old as the city itself. That is the famous Scoppio del Carro, literally the explosion of the chariot. Nowadays, people of Firenze still celebrate this holy festivity but, one has to admit it, without the same devout enthusiasm as ten centuries before. No, today, it's a mere festivity like any others.  
But I'm not here to talk about a simple show for tourists, so let's go back to our main story.  
Like every year for decades, that Holy Saturday, the Saturday preceding Easter, was a real Italian holiday. Everyone left their hovels to mingle with the crowd which was packing densely in the streets. Impossible to circulate freely in that multitude. If you cut your arm, eat some strange crap and were in dire need for a doctor, it was simply the worst day of the year. You would find no one at their home since doctors, barbers and apothecaries of ill repute would certainly be attending the crossing of the illustrious chariot. As much as we can qualify as illustrious a ten meters high cart pulled by four enormous cows dressed in their Sunday best. The cart was pacing slowly through Firenze, surrounded constantly by soldiers in their red and white ceremonial attires, drumming on the rhythm of the city's hymn and traditional canticles, and waving Firenze's flags.  
By the end of the afternoon, the cart and its escort reached the cathedral Santa Maria del Fiore, stopping on the piazza. By then, people could only notice one thing: the absence of the duke, which should have been at the head of the procession with the religious authorities. But it was already told that the old man was laid up and couldn't leave his castle. The people were compassionate and forgave him easily.  
Everybody was waiting, an impatient smile stretching their lips. As if he complied graciously with the crowd's silent prayer, the archbishop lit the Colombina up. The false bird then crossed the space between the cathedral's entrance where the minister of God was standing to the square, and hit the Carro right in its middle. At that moment, the detonation began, altogether with crackling and back-fires and the hubbub of the jubilant mass. The church's piazza was soon filled with sparks and smoke. First white, the smoke was replaced by a red and blue and violet one, so thick none could see past their nose.  
In the middle of that tumult, none could see the weird group of masked people slowly walking to the cathedral. It was only when the smoke was more or less dissipated and the noises of the explosion diminished that their presence became more real. Cropping up from the mist like ghosts, they rapidly surrounded and were now aiming at the soldiers who had no choice but remain still. How many were those intruders? Just enough to subdue the entire place. At first, the spectators didn't understand what it was about; they just kept on watching at the scene, oblivious of the danger.  
That was until a masked man climbed the stairs to the cathedral, and then, after casting a circular glance to the crowd, he addressed them.  
"People of Firenze, you're all being deceived. The Duke is dead! Killed by the very persons he'd put his trust in: his soldiers, his marescialli, his own army! Those festivities are only to hide the truth, to gain time… No. Don't let yourselves being duped. This is just a comedy, a masquerade! Our Duke has been assassinated and right now they're keeping his rightful heir in jail. This is a coup d'état!"  
A generalized murmur followed that terrible accusation. Alternatively, people watched at the masked man then at the soldiers, yet the latter were as lost as the crowd. At that point, another man raised from the crowd, which immediately recognized him as being one of Firenze's marshals. Just like the masked man, none tried to stop him as he crossed the square and went to stand before the rebel, down the stairs. For some time, they stared coldly at each other. At last, the second man asked the crowd with the same fashion as the first one.  
"Are you going to believe this dissident? A man who doesn't even have enough heart to show his true face to you?"  
"They will not judge me at my face, my name or even at my words, but at my acts, Giotto!" The rebel replied proudly. "Many of us have been caught, many of us have been killed, but still many of us have been hiding and waiting for this day to come. Today, we claim justice!"  
"Enough of this nonsense." Giotto demanded, rising his right hand. Immediately, his movement was obeyed by the soldiers who, as one and at top speed, turned against their assailants, swords and bayonets in hands. An incredible outburst blasted on the square.  
The crowd was dispersing like a herd of frightened rabbits, each one afraid of being the next to fall down on the ground and to never get up – whether hit by a bullet or stamped to death by the others. It was totally incredible. Such an uproar, the day right before Easter! The citizens were shut close in their houses. Outside, everywhere, it was total a chaos.  
Now, if yo'uve never seen with your very eyes what a rebellion looks like, just try to picture this.  
Skirmishes were taking place at every street corner; barricades were built up as fast as if they had always been there. Each faction was trying to take possession of the arsenal of their adversary. The people – simple citizens and usually harmless peasants – was being armed and lead to fight in the streets against the militaries. In an instant, your existence fell over; in only one second, your head was crashed into the ground or your arm exploded. Pitched battle, en masse, in lines or hand-to-hand fighting, everything was pretext to kill and spread blood.  
A tumult. In some places, bodies were piled up; some still alive, groaning, aware of the fact they didn't have for long anymore, as they saw the bodies of their comrades cut into two, decaying right next them. Yet, the spectacle the soldiers and pseudo soldiers had beneath their eyes was beyond understanding: corpses exploding under the effect of gas, half of the cadavers lying here and there so mutilated were practically unrecognizable. Soon, a miasma of blood and putrefaction was hovering over Firenze.  
Still the fight was out of balance. It was obvious that the military faction had a clear advantage compared with the aristocrat's, which was mainly composed by civilians. However, everything wasn't over for that. In view of the fact that they had the rebellion planned since long, the rebels were more prepared and had requisitioned a lot more people than the military faction.  
Four positions in particular were being fought over, all in the middle of Firenze: the Santa Croce in the east, the Palazzo Pitti in the south, the Santa Maria Novella in the west and, of course, San Lorenzo.

Dino Cavallone was standing alone in front of the Palazzo Pitti. This position fell to him since he was the one closest to the place when the guerilla broke out. His men were already encircling the Palazzo and securing the perimeters, ready for any surprise attack from the enemy. This position had a real strategic meaning: if someone from the outside (enforcement, allies from different cities or other) decided to attack the town by the south, Cavallone and his squad was enough ready to welcome them.  
The blond youth frowned, but it wasn't because of his task: the Pitti could keep a siege for months, it wasn't what was worrying him. What he was worrying about was what was happening inside Firenze. From where he was, all he could see and hear was at best bits and echoes of altercations. It was currently impossible to make contact with the other marshals in the town; the situation in the streets didn't allow it.  
And that wasn't all.  
"Kyoya is still in a bad shape. And Squalo…" He sighed. "Where can that pigheaded guy be?"  
Officially, the last time he saw the silverette was at the trial in San Lorenzo. When he heard the postponement of the judgment, Dino knew perfectly Squalo wouldn't wait until that day; he wasn't that eager to die. And sending him back to his house was only like actually sparing his life.  
He had known the swordsman for a while and had come many times in that apartment. Dino was aware of the existence of the secret exit; nonetheless, he didn't breathe a word to the other marescialli. He had made his request with full knowledge of the facts, and if someone else apart from him and Squalo found out what's been going on, then he would really fear for his bacon. The blond smiled gloomily as he was thinking about all of that. Suddenly, a wild and unpleasant wind blew over the castle, making him shiver.  
Just like the night before, when he saw the silver haired man leaving the Palazzo Vecchio.  
The night before, he had also been very windy. Dino Cavallone knew Squalo wouldn't remain long confined in his house, hence he sent two of his best men to spy on him. As a matter of fact, it was more to help him get away in case the other marshals got wind of his evasion rather than really spying on the silverette.  
The spies spent the entire day waiting around Squalo's house, then, when they saw him getting out in that rather strange way, they followed him to the theater (where they overheard the discussion between Squalo and Yamamoto) then to the Palazzo. They found it fishy, so one of them went to call for the Cavallone. Dino couldn't believe what the spy told him, but when he met the silverette outside the prison, he had to resign himself and accept the truth: Superbi Squalo, his best friend, had come to be a traitor.  
"Squalo!" Dino called out at the swordsman. That night, it was dark in the Via Castellani, and there was no living soul wondering that late, so the blond didn't care about being loud. The long haired man, though, didn't seem to be shocked beyond measure. He looked calmly at Dino as the latter was quickly advancing toward him. "For God's sake, what are you…"  
The Cavallone closed his eyes. It was obvious, what Squalo was doing there. Apart from him, everyone who had attended that trial in San Lorenzo was informed of Xanxus' imprisonment place. So, in the end, what did he come there for? Only to have the confirmation of Squalo's betrayal? To arrest him again and to see him being killed on the scaffold? Dino rubbed his face vigorously. Of course, he didn't want that to happen! That was simply beyond his strength.  
"Go away. No one saw you. Go away." He hissed between his teeth, a hand still pressed against his face.  
He didn't see Squalo leave. Only the steady footsteps on the cobblestone street told the blond that his friend was gone, and that he wouldn't go back again. One hour later, he got the message of Xanxus' escape.  
Dino brushed those thoughts away. It wasn't time to think about such things anymore, plus Squalo hadn't been the only traitor.  
"Captain Cavallone!" A sentinel yelled from the top of a tower. "The enemy is approaching, right before us!"  
The small army surrounding Dino instantly took their positions to receive properly the long waited attacker. Whispers of indignation rose from the soldiers as the adverse leader slowly approached the castle.  
"Zakuro, huh…" Dino mumbled darkly. That's right. Squalo had never been the only traitor among them.

Few streets from the Pizzi, near San Lorenzo, in spite of the position, the ambiance was way less dismal, but not half tensed. A man was remaining motionless, few meters from the church, hiding in an empty room of one of the buildings surrounding it. A young girl was alternatively looking at him then at the church, as if she was wanted to ask the man what he was thinking about.  
"Nothing, my dear Chrome." The man said softly, looking back at her. "Or more precisely, I want to think about something, to have something I can come up with, but it's no use. This (he pointed at a point behind the church) is a fortress, and if we only had the impudence of coming near, it would be over for us."  
"Mukuro-sama," The girl begged with her eyes. "If you wish for it, I can go and ask for reinforcement from another faction…"  
"Pointlessly." The man called Mukuro retorted from tit to tat, his eyebrows furrowing a little. "What we have here isn't a problem of reduced number, but of line of attack. I'm not doubtful about the plan that man gave us of the church's inside…" He sighed nervously. "No… I can't do anything but believe him since there is no other way. But how we'll get in, that's the matter."  
"Mmmh…" Someone was chewing behind Mukuro, startling the latter. "Why not simply break through?"  
Mukuro quickly turned back, ready to punch Byakuran in the face for surprising him, but he held back. He chose to put up with the annoying and smiling white haired man who, God only knows why, was enthusiastically gobbling a full hamper of marshmallows. Mukuro's fist twitched as the chewing became more and more noisy.  
"I won't do something as reckless as that. I'm not suicidal."  
"Really? So why don't you call for help as Chrome-chan so wisely advised?"  
"It would come to the same thing, with only a little more corpse scattered outside. I don't like waste. Kufufu. If I had to use someone as a shelter, I'd rather use you." Mukuro added cuttingly.  
"Don't be angry, I just wanted to give a help!" Byakuran laughed.  
Mukuro glared at the white haired marshal. "By the way, how did you get here? Chrome and me had a very hard time reaching this hotel, but I didn't hear any gunshot before you got here…" He grinned before sticking his trident under Byakuran's nose. "You're going to tell me, aren't you, Signore Byakuran?"  
The marshal just gave a smile to Mukuro. He took a firm hold at the trident's handle, moving it away from him, then he drew closer to the other male. "Threatening doesn't suit you at all, you know." He said gently. "I'll tell you if you behave, Mukuro-kun."  
The latter, understanding he wouldn't get anything from the white haired man that way, put his weapon down. He breathed deeply. "So?"  
"Splendid!" Byakuran beamed, then showed the door to the young girl. "Now if Chrome-chan could lead the way."  
Chrome walked past the two men. They went down to the ground-floor, but when she arrived in front of the building's entrance, Chrome paused, unsure.  
"We're not getting out." Byakuran told her. He pointed at another door, at the back of the hallway. The white haired man then picked a candle up from atop the hotel's counter; he lit it up. "You see this door? (Chrome walked to it and opened the door) Come in, we're following you. Oh, be careful! It's very dark in there. You'll miss the staircase. Keep on going down, and just like this we'll get to the hotel's basement."  
The marshal was right. The three of them were now in a cellar full of provisions and arms. Mukuro scanned the room dubiously. It totally wasn't normal for a civilian building to have such an amount of reserves, unless they were prepared to undergo the biggest blockade of all times, or if they…  
"Byakuran." He frowned deeply. "Is it possible that this cellar is connected to a military base… Is it possible that…!"  
"Yes it is." The white haired man acknowledged casually before pulling a map from his sleeve and unfolded it on a desk near them. Mukuro and Chrome looked at it. It was an undecipherable muddling of corridors, houses and roads, which would give a headache to someone who wasn't prepared to see it. "But not only this building. You see, when they built the church and all its surroundings, they already thought circumstances like this would happen. A siege, I mean." Byakuran trailed the minuscule drawing with his forefinger. "So they dug a network underground passages and corridors that would link all the edifices around San Lorenzo, thus allowing a constant supply in food and munitions. The houses' owners didn't have to be aware of it. They only needed the key to penetrate the cellars, that was all. Are you following?"  
"I am." Mukuro replied. "So why didn't you give this map earlier? We wouldn't have lost all that time staring stupidly at the church…"  
"Dear Mukuro. If I told you about this sooner… I don't know… let's say one day earlier, I wouldn't have been able to prevent you from wandering in those corridors, where there is always at least one squad patrolling continually. They would have found you out, and immediately concluded there's a traitor among them. The security would have been strengthened up, and today's little rebellion would be totally hopeless. But now, all of their forces are up there fighting against the rebels. Outside. Are you following?"  
"Stop asking that." Mukuro hissed. "I got it. So if we just follow this plan, we'll get to San Lorenzo?"  
"Exactly. May I lead you now? I'm feeling sorry for letting this young girl ahead."  
"All right. This way, you're the one taking the first bullets."  
Byakuran sighed and strode to an opening dammed by metallic bars. He just pushed them and the way was free. They all rushed in the dark passage. "Everyone is so mean to me, even if I'm doing such great job. Just like Squalo…"  
"Squalo?" Mukuro raised an eyebrow. "Why are you talking about that man? Isn't he to be executed soon?"  
"Xanxus didn't allow it." Byakuran shrugged as if it was a natural fact that, if the raven didn't allow something, it would never happen.  
"Ah so. So much the better for him, then."  
"Um, Byakuran-san?" Chrome's voice raised timidly from behind them. "May I ask you a question?"  
"Of course, my sweet heart!" The marshal cheered at her. "I'll never say no to such a cute girl as you."  
Chrome blushed but didn't avert her eyes. "I supposed that, until now, you've been able to travel through Firenze and to gather information…"  
"That's right."  
"So, did you hear about our comrades? All I know is the marescialli arrested a lot of them, but I don't know exactly who, or who are still alive…"  
The white haired man remained silent for some time before answering. "I see. Even if I'm myself a marshal, the others didn't let me move as freely as I wanted, lately. I'm mostly as well informed as you – that is to say, very poorly. If you're talking about your comrades… All I know is that, right now, Yamamoto Takeshi and Gokudera Hayato are besieging the Santa Croce, and also that the Shions are holding Santa Maria Novella. For the moment. But the situation can change so rapidly I'm not sure you should take everything I say at face value."  
"Is that so …" Chrome lowered her head.  
They reached a basement window which was opened as easily as the basement bars, to a garden bathed in the dusk. They were in San Lorenzo's backyard. Fortunately, it was void of soldiers. After all, who would think about guarding the church's inside when the attack was coming from outside?  
Just like shadows, the conspirators rapidly tagged along San Lorenzo's walls, taking advantage of the dimness to sneak inside the basilica. Everything looked easy… until they got inside.  
…  
Any man who tries to be good all the time is bound to come to ruin among the great number who are not good, Machiavel said, long ago.  
Xanxus' father, the old Timoteo, had been a man kind and just, but his naivety and blindness only lead him under the salvo of twenty rifles. His father had been wrong; Xanxus would never be that stupid. The raven didn't cry when they announced his father's death, nor did he cry when his freedom and wealth was taken away from him. No, Xanxus didn't cry. The sadness a man should have felt in this kind of situation had been simply, savagely trampled on by an incommensurable rage, a wrath that would only quenched with the blood of his foes. For many years, he coldly calculated killings, schemed his revenge, with the exception of one detail. In his equation, he omitted no name, no face whose he was debtor of.  
This is what the tanned man had thought, up until he met the silverette. For once, a human life wasn't but a pawn, a tool he could use and get rid of as he liked. For once, he almost jeopardized his scheme only for a mere human life. Xanxus had doubts: if that person disappeared, for what would have he been doing all of this? This new part of him disgusted the ancient, vindictive and bloodthirsty one. But then he thought, were those two parts that incoherent? He wanted the silverette, he wanted to take his revenge. Well, he'd get both. Everything was as simple as that, and once he had decided something, no one, not even Heavens, could stop him until he would plainly fulfill his wish.  
When he got out of prison, this had been his only thought. When he met again with his underlings and when they came into action in front of Santa Maria, his state of mind didn't change. He idly watched the humans fighting and dying and fighting and dying before him, not raising a little finger. Insects didn't interest him. He waited patiently for the bugs to make some free space for him to face that blond marshal; that was all.

Xanxus took a deep breath and looked up in the sky. It was red, as red as his eyes, as red as the blood pouring in Firenze. Below them, the town was giving off a stench – death, putrefaction, charcoaled flesh, and fear. And it was all because of him, him only. The raven took a deep breath and smile like the Evil god itself.  
"I'm right, aren't I, Firenze's marshal?" He shouted at Giotto – a wounded, bleeding and kneeling down Giotto.  
They were both inside Santa Maria's bell tower, at the highest place, where the bell was hanging. Outside the campanile, on the piazza in front of Santa Maria, it was already less noisy than one hour earlier, when the guerilla broke out – though the rest of the city still was plunged into a confusion without a name. The nauseous wind, which had been blowing on the town since the day before, was still whooshing softly, slightly tousling the tanned man's hair, the canicule unbearable. Few meters away in front of him, the blond maresciallo was out of breath and holding tight at his belly – though it wasn't the only part of his body riddled with bullets.  
A fair judge would have called Xanxus and Giotto's fight a killing. It simply hadn't been a loyal fight – but of loyalty and fairness, the raven was truly fed up. Within thirty minutes, seven bullets: first one in the left shoulder, followed by a bullet in the haunch, then in the right thigh, in the right shoulder, in the belly, in the left arm… It was a miracle Giotto still was alive, so much he was in pain and had lost blood.  
"Today, it's your losing." The raven walked toward the bleeding man, each one of his steps as heavy as a hammer hitting the anvil. One meter before Giotto, he put the barrel of his gun again the man's forehead. "Scum. Die."  
The marshal's chin trembled a little, then his injured shoulders, then his entire body: Giotto was laughing! He was practically screaming with laughter! Xanxus assumed the fit was influenced by the emotions. Yet he was curious. Giotto would surely be the last man he would kill that day, so he was curious about what were the fool's last words.  
"Xanxus. I hadn't lost. Not yet." Giotto raised his eyes to look intently at the raven.  
"Pain is driving you mad. Be sure I'll remedy to this."  
"You don't get it…" Giotto panted. "Look at the city. What do you see?"  
Xanxus gazed at Firenze half in fire. Smoke was coming up from the many barricades and the main buildings. That was when Xanxus noticed something was going wrong: the smoke had always been white, now there were thin orange clouds raising slowly in the air; it was coming from almost everywhere.  
"You lousy scum, what's the meaning of this?" Xanxus demanded.  
"Idiot." Giotto spat, his stare calm and assured. "A war isn't only between the generals. Besides, there are also strategy, tactics, troops and soldiers… You see, I told my men to send a signal every time they succeed in pacifying each important points. Orange clouds." A cough. "You undervalued my soldiers, Xanxus. That's why it's your losing!"  
For a fraction of second, an awful rumbling could be heard from under the bell tower. The ground was more and more trembling under the raven's feet… That was when he saw two gigantic thorny balls, of both nearly three meters in diameter, bursting the narrow opening of the tower then rolling at the speed of sound toward him.  
Xanxus didn't have enough time to dodge the attack.  
The rolls would have wiped him away if, only inches away from him, they didn't both miraculously split in a countless number of shards in a sudden blow of wind. The raven opened his eyes wide at the unexpected view of the two enormous missiles literally disintegrate before him. Another laugh, this one ferric and familiar, burst next to him.  
"Vooi, Giotto." Squalo slowly raised from the ground, his silvery hair blending strangely with the mist, as though they were part of the same body, and his sword still fuming from the hit. "Hadn't you ever heard about a check mate? Once the king is fucking dead, no matter if shitty soldiers had done well, no matter the time and effort deployed in strategy." The swordsman smirked at Hibari Kyoya who had also appeared without warning at the other side of the tower. "When you're dead, you've lost. There's nothing truer than this in this damn world."  
Kyoya darted to him, his tonfas ready to damage the swordsman deadly. Without a glance to Xanxus and Giotto, Squalo resumed his fight against the Japanese youth. Kyoya was indeed wounded, but his moves were as smooth and violent as ever. The silver haired man didn't have (and didn't want) to hold back. But the tower wasn't big enough for the two monsters; they simply disappeared outside, as fast as they arrived.  
On his side, Giotto took advantage of the diversion Hibari gave him to move away from Xanxus' line of sight. It was only a question of seconds, but it had been enough to save the blond's life. The raven had to admit it, the scoundrel was running fast, even with seven bullets in the body and half of his blood lost. Giotto fell down, down the stairs to Santa Maria. At some point, he tried to get up and pull his worn out body outside, but he only ended up creeping pitifully on the ground. Xanxus understood what it was about: he was trying to get some time before the other factions of Firenze's militia got to the cathedral. How pitiful, waiting for a bunch of scumbags to save one's life. Xanxus was more than delighted to end up the existence of such pitiful trash.  
He trailed the blood stains Giotto had left behind him in his escape. Unhurriedly, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. They got inside the cathedral. Giotto was way ahead, resting under the gigantic holy Cross at the front of the nave. Xanxus, though, stopped halfway. Seeing him there, the blond, with a superhuman effort, got up and looked at the raven in the eye.  
"What." Xanxus smirked. "Waiting for your execution like a man? Don't make me laugh."  
Outside, the fight between the swordsman and the dark haired youth was at its height. The church was trembling and the roof falling apart under their attacks, almost as vehement as an earthquake. The tower surely would need to be rebuilt after this.  
Life belongs to the last one standing up.  
Xanxus aimed and shot. This time, Giotto would get up no more.

"Um, I think we've lost." Enma said to the members of his famiglia.  
"Oh, so that means we've taken this place in vain. What a waste of time." Kouyou sighed.  
The Shions were watching Firenze slowly catching fire hither and thither, sitting tranquilly inside the Santa Maria Novella. It was very quiet there, mostly because apart from them, there were only dead bodies lying on the ground. They had been waiting in that open cemetery for quite a while, but no emissary form the raven came to inform them on the development of the situation in the other districts.  
"I guess we only have to leave, now." A tall girl with long, black hair said.  
"Do you think so, Adelheid?" The boy asked, unsure. "Maybe they need us and can't contact us…"  
"Enma." Adelheid cut. "We're not those people's friends. We had a contract with them and fulfilled our part perfectly. So they did. There is no other attachment left, and I don't want to risk my family members' life for mere stranger."  
Enma could only admit defeat before such an infallible reasoning. He sighed and kept on watching at the city.  
"I wonder what Xanxus is doing right now." The boy muttered, his head in both hands.  
…  
The raven got out from the cathedral. As he had expected, an army – though less than half of what had been standing in the square few hours earlier – an army was waiting for him outside, aiming fearfully at him. He looked at them with disgust. All he saw was a horde of trashes, of lowlifes and laughable buffoons; scums he didn't want to deal with, whose lives would be unworthy of him to take. A headache was menacing him; he rubbed his temple.  
"Voo-oi-oi-oooi!" Xanxus had barely time to look up at a silly silverette falling down from the sky, before the trash plainly fell on him, heavily and painfully.  
"You motherfucking trash, go die right now!" Xanxus got up and shouted at Squalo who was agonizingly rubbing his back on the ground.  
"Voi, shut up, my back hurts like hell, ya know!"  
"Who cares about your shitty back, trash?"  
"I do!"  
Their argument wouldn't have ended if they didn't hear the clinking guns of the rest of Firenze's army. The second after, Hibari was there with them, which was fairly equilibrating the balance. Surely, in few minutes, others would come, too.  
Squalo got up, though with a little difficulty. "So what are we doing now, Boss?"  
"What are we doing?" The raven demanded. "I didn't ask anything from you, stupid."  
The swordsman looked at him the same way he would look at a capricious kid. "Voi, be candid and just accept people's help when they're proposing you." He shrugged.  
Xanxus che-ed. Despite his wound, maybe the shark could be useful, in any case; his previous fight with the Japanese brat had proved that fact. And again, his head hurt, he didn't want to think that much. He turned back to look at the wrecked soldiers.  
"Get in my way and I'll kill you, scum." He hissed at Squalo.  
"I got it, I got it." The latter smirked viciously while twirling his sword with his left hand.  
Squalo lightly flung the spatha in the air and caught it with his other hand. The handle barely made contact with his skin that the silver haired swordsman was already launching at the other side of the square, swirling like a wave between each salvo from his opponents. He was implacable, merciless and beautiful that way. In the end, Squalo's beauty wasn't only residing in a stunning face and an alluring body. The sword was death's tool, and the vicious yet enthralling appearance, the funeral hymn. As he saw the silverette moving and cutting every man in his way, a thought suddenly made its way in his mind.  
At all hazards, wasn't this everything he had always wanted?


End file.
